


buddies

by dilangley



Category: Mighty Ducks (Movies)
Genre: Carolina Hurricanes, Charlie is unbelievably bad at this, Kid Fic, M/M, Professional Hockey for Adam, Single Dad Charlie, and they were ROOMMATES, but oh so sincere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28144146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilangley/pseuds/dilangley
Summary: Charlie never planned on being a single parent, and Adam never planned on making him do it alone.
Relationships: Adam Banks/Charlie Conway
Comments: 45
Kudos: 107
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	buddies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kayromantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayromantic/gifts).



> This was originally 3,000 words of prose somewhere in the middle of what it became.
> 
> I am rejecting all accuracy of timeline and 90's technology because it's a smartphone world, and we're just living in it.

_Charlie Conway never saw a positive pregnancy test. He never visited a doctor’s office or opened an envelope for a gender reveal. The mother isn’t a girlfriend, a friend, even a long-term hookup. She’s a teammate’s older sister’s best friend who happened to be there on a long, drunken weekend. She’s a nice girl who apologized to him for the inconvenience and promised him this meant nothing for him. Already she had called an adoption agency, set up her first visit._

_Within weeks, the agency had flooded his university email address with information. The couple, in their 30s, Christian, upper middle class, well-connected, had been dreaming of parenthood since they married ten years before. This baby was their answered prayer._

_He never called his mom to tell her about the baby he’s not going to have. Why upset her over nothing? He didn’t tell the team, though Varly knew because of the whole older-sister-friend-thing. And Charlie didn’t call the Ducks. None of them. Not even Adam._

_The adoption agency called him when the adoptive parents took home the baby. They asked him to come in and sign the remaining paperwork._

_Only he couldn’t do it. He sat there in a pleather chair with his hands shaking and his socks full of sweat and face hot and itchy until the adoption counselor across the table spoke so softly he almost didn’t hear her._

_“You don’t have to,” she said. “No one can force you to do this.”_

_He set down the pen and dropped his head into his hands. This decision would be the most selfish one he would ever make. It was the only choice he could live with._

_Two days later, a social worker knocked at his apartment door to hand him a tiny, fragile newborn, named Zachary James by other people who had believed they would be his parents._

_“Holy fuck, I’m sorry, kid,” Charlie whispered when the door clicked shut. “I’m sorry you got me.”_

  
  
  
  


On the fourth day, Charlie stops worrying the baby will die randomly. He props parenting books open to relevant pages in every room, stares at the words and diagrams as if they will make him a father. Sure, technically, screwing a girl without a condom after drinking half a bottle of whiskey made him a father, but that didn’t count. He hasn’t figured out what to call the baby yet; every time he says Zachary or Zach, it doesn’t fit. He even tries Z. Nothing. 

Exhausted in the middle of the night, he stares at the yowling baby in his arms and wonders what he would have named him if he had known he wanted him. He can’t think of anything because the kid’s already Zach, which doesn’t fit but keeps everything else from fitting too.

It’s late July, and he’s about to start his junior year at UND -- go Fighting Hawks -- only he has a baby in a college apartment. He spends the summers here, stays in Grand Forks to work delivering pizzas and to take extra classes here and there. After his freshman year, he was still only eighteen when he called his mom on the phone and told her he wasn’t coming home to stay. 

“I’m just going to visit you for a week and then get back to work. I’m getting an apartment with some guys from the team and have to pay my share,” he had said, pretending he couldn’t feel the livewire of her disappointment humming through the phone. 

His mom had wanted college for him. On his worst days at Eden Hall, when he had already told Adam and Fulton he was quitting, it had been Casey Conway Berry -- she’d been Berry then, not that it had lasted -- who marched him back into the registrar’s office and made him tear up that paperwork, bright red and on the verge of tears, in front of the wide-eyed office staff. 

But his mom had never been to college, so she hadn’t known just what she had pushed so hard for. By the time September rolled around that first year and the professors treated him with all the respect high school teachers hadn’t and his peers around him came from all over the world and believed in unlimited potential, Charlie knew he could never live in his mom’s tiny apartment with her latest husband. He missed her as if she was dead sometimes, missed a version of her he could never get back, the bright-eyed, exhausted mother he had worshipped as a child before he realized she blew too much money on lottery tickets for the same reasons she got married too often.

He’s grateful to her, so, so grateful, because she pushed him out of the nest. And he flew. He just didn’t fly back home. He never would.

He needs to call her now, but what is he going to say? “Come visit. You’re a grandmother. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Shit, he doesn’t even want her here right now while he’s such a mess. It’ll feel too much like him fulfilling the tragic story of his background. _Grew up dirt poor in the bad part of town. Tried to get out but ended up a single parent at 20._ This is not how he wants to surprise his mom and the people back home: by not surprising them at all, not really.

Apparently realizing his diaper is clean and his belly is full, the baby finally stops crying and falls to sleep in his arms. The wrinkles of his scrunched face smooth to peace, his little mouth almost smiles. His face is so small. Charlie tilts his head. Zachary, Zach, this baby is a good-looking kid. All newborns look kind of alike, so Charlie can’t see himself in this face but neither can he see anyone else. He just sees this little person yet to become.

Riding the dopey, erratic high of four hours of sleep in two days, Charlie grabs his phone and takes a blurry photo. 

_Meet Zachary James Conway_ he types in the Ducks group chat before clicking on Do Not Disturb.

  
  
  
  
  


[Goldberg] _WHAT THE FCK?_

[Dwayne] _is that a new brother?_

[Averman] _you’re messing with us right?_

[Banks] _Hey, call me._

[Julie] _Congratulations Charlie!!!_

[Goldberg] _Cat says its real and she knows everything. CONGRATS BROTHER._

[Averman] _Hes not texting back. I still think its a prank_

[Russ] _cool name dude. Can’t wait to meet him!_

[Goldberg] _OH and nice hatty Banks you were on espn_

[Averman] _Im never rooting for the canes not even for you_

[Fulton] _is that a kid? Did charlie just tell us he has a kid?_

[Portman] _of course its a kid you moron_

[Portman] _might not be charlie’s_

[Portman] _but its a kid_

[Dwayne] _first duck with a baby. i feel old._

[Portman] _reminds me to go buy condoms_

[Julie] _damn it guys act right_

[Portman] _condoms and a congrats card?_

[Averman] _better_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Charlie tries calling him James for about a day and a half, but it’s a no go. He even tries the nicknames -- Jimmy, Jamie, Jim -- and hates those worst of all. Out of nowhere, giving the slippery little thing a bath for the first time, Charlie remembers reading _To Kill a Mockingbird_ at Eden Hall. The teacher eviscerated the book at every turn, criticized its handling of every imaginable topic, and still devoted twelve weeks to it. Charlie never did figure out if they were supposed to love it or hate it; he ended up at ambivalent. But he remembers the brother is Jem. He can’t remember if the whole name was James, but it seems like a reasonable enough nickname.

It sticks. He likes it. Somehow it’s short and sweet enough to call a newborn whose greatest accomplishment most days is passing gas and finishing a bottle, but it isn’t too silly, too foolish. It won’t embarrass the kid if he can’t shake it before he’s a teenager himself. He can even talk it up a little if he wants: “My dad named me after classic literature. Lame, right?” he might say, rolling his eyes.

The stash of baby supplies dropped off by the social worker -- a generous gift from the couple whose hearts Charlie shattered -- is still sitting by the door, dwindling, and Charlie carries a naked Jem in one arm as he snags a fresh diaper out of the box. 

There’s a knock on the door, so light Charlie almost misses it. He looks out the peephole. It’s the social worker, Kayva. Maybe Charlie had remembered to write the date and time of her next visit on the fridge, but he’s not entirely certain because he hasn’t remembered to look at it. Outside the door, she looks impossibly professional. He glances down at the naked infant in his arms.

“At least you’re clean,” he mutters to Jem as he opens the door. “Hey. Uh, hi. It’s nice to, um, see you again. Come in.”

“Hi Charlie.” She comes in. He sweeps a look over the apartment, and actually, it looks okay. All the dishes are done and put away because he’d needed the sink for bathtime, and the laundry isn’t put away but it’s clean and folded in a basket on the couch. (Oh man, taking an infant to the laundry room downstairs in the apartment building had been his first time out of the apartment in a week, and it had convinced him that had been a good move.)

“Do you sit down?” Charlie asks. “Or like, walk around? I, um, have to go get a diaper on Jem before he pees all over the carpet again.”

Fuck. He should have skipped the again, he thinks, when she raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll wait here while you diaper him,” she says, taking a seat on the edge of Mittsy’s big recliner. He slips into his bedroom, their bedroom, and puts down a towel at the edge of the bed. He’s getting better at the whole diaper thing, gets it on snug enough the first time, and then puts him in a zip-up onesie covered in baby chicks. Charlie’s already completely given up on any of the onesies with snaps because holy shit, snaps on a tiny, wiggling infant are a nightmare. He glances at himself in the mirror over his dresser. His sweatpants have wet spots from the bath, but they’re relatively clean, and the spit-up on his white tee shirt has dried so it almost isn’t noticeable.

“Ready or not, dude, here we go.”

Kayva has her laptop out on her lap now, typing with rapid fingers without looking at the keys. Charlie still hunts and pecks, so he’s suitably impressed.

“We’re back,” he says unnecessarily. She smiles.

“Relax, Charlie. I’m here for a follow-up visit as support. You’re not on trial.”

He sits down on the couch and takes a shaky breath, suddenly too aware of the fear constricting his chest now that he’s been told it’s not necessary. 

“This is an unusual case,” she continues, “Families often make the decisions not to pursue adoption, but I’ll be honest with you, it’s unusual for such a young man to take on parenthood by himself like this.”

“I guess so,” he says. 

Because really, what else can he say? He didn’t want to do this until he looked down at the papers and realized the baby he didn’t want right now would always be his kid, out there somewhere without him, irreversible even when Charlie was old enough to have his shit together. Someday, he might be a stable adult with a good job somewhere in hockey marketing, complaining to his boss about an asshole on their newest account, while his kid died in a car crash. The worst day of his life might happen somewhere without him ever knowing. He could live with the idea that his kid was out there, thriving and happy and successful without him -- that was the idea adoption sold you, an idea he actually did think he believed -- but he couldn’t live with the idea that his kid might be out there in trouble, in pain, alone while he had an ordinary Tuesday, completely unaware.

“Do you have a support system?” 

He hesitates. “I have a mom. And a stepfather. They’re back in Minnesota, but they’re there. They’re not going anywhere. And I have friends.”

She doesn’t look pleased, just vaguely sympathetic and concerned.

He tries to elaborate. “No, like I’ve got really good friends. They’re family. We played hockey together since we were kids, and they’re the best. And I’ve got my team here. My hockey team ‘cause I still play.”

“Is your plan to continue with your classes?” 

“Yes.”

But as soon as he says it, his stomach somersaults. How the hell is he going to continue his classes? He has a scholarship that helps, but he barely makes rent during the season when he has to cut back his hours at work to pretty much nothing. He can’t afford a babysitter for every time he has to go to a class, every time he needs to meet a study group to stay afloat. How is he going to _work?_ When he called his boss and told him he needed some paternity time, he got surprised congratulations and a thoughtful check in the mail from a few coworkers, but that’s pocket money. It won’t pay the bills. It won’t buy new clothes and new diapers when these piles run out, and oh shit, he’s already looked at the price tags on everything in the pile and nothing is in his budget. Nothing. 

“I mean, no,” he amends, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “I can’t right now, like this year, obviously, but I’m going to go back. I’m not going to drop out.”

If she doubts the hard edge in his voice, she doesn’t mention it. “That’s a good idea long-term. In the short-term, are you planning to move closer to your mother or a friend?”

He has no fucking clue. He’s been living minute to minute, proud as hell when he warms up a bottle correctly and gets Jem to eat it, giddy beyond belief to finally have something to call the baby that actually feels like his name.

“I’m still figuring it out,” he says. He shrugs and hopes she doesn’t misunderstand it as him not caring. “But I will. Figure it out. I’ve got diapering and bottling down now so I’ve got time.” 

Kayva stays another hour, holds Jem and approves of the nickname, and leaves Charlie with her work cell number in his phone and a pile of papers about local resources. She highlights a church group that works regularly with university students in crisis, suggesting they might be glad for a “happy crisis” like this one.

But when she sweeps out the door with a reassuring pat on his arm and a scheduled visit next week -- because she may like him but that doesn’t make her naive -- he grabs his phone.

He scrolls to B in his contacts and hits call.

“Hey.” Adam picks up on the third ring. “You okay?”

Charlie shakes his head even though he’s on the phone. “I’m in over my head.”

“I know.”

“You got any free time? I…” He can’t afford a plane ticket, and embarrassment swells in his throat, cuts him off.

“Motherfucker, I’m laid over in MSP right now, but I’ll be there by dinnertime.”

“You’re on the way?” 

Adam sighs. “Yeah, dude, I’m almost there. I’ll bring food.”

“I love you,” Charlie blurts, no game, no guile, just pure relief.

  
  
  
  
  


Thirteen years old and stupid, Charlie asks Hans if he’s ever been in love. They’re in the back of the raggedy skate shop, Hans’ hands busy sharpening and Charlie’s tugging the zipper on his backpack open and closed, open and closed.

Hans doesn’t laugh. “Of course, my boy.”

“What’s it like?” 

“It is knowing another person and choosing to be there for them when they are themselves.” 

Seventh grade Charlie isn’t impressed. How does that answer help him understand how his mother could be getting married to someone he doesn’t even like, someone who never remembers that they don’t like Raisin Bran, someone who doesn’t know the bus schedule?

He remembers it though. On Saturday nights he and Adam play Nintendo in his room, playing until it’s pitch black except for the crackly blue glow of the screen. Charlie sometimes looks over and thinks Banksy is his favorite person in the whole world, wishes he had some opportunity like _Armaggeddon_ where it would be okay for him to say that, prove it by doing something great, something cooler than just letting Adam hang out here all the time when his own house feels too big and empty.

He remembers how Hans said “they,” not she, like he wanted Charlie to hear it.

  
  
  
  
  


The great war of their freshmen year looks silly in retrospect. The Ducks were a publicity stunt for Eden Hall, as much as they hadn’t wanted that to be true, and only one of them stood any chance of making it to the show. Adam was a more complete player as a scrawny 14 year old than any of those seniors. By the time he had turned 16, he had outclassed anything anyone could offer at Eden Hall’s rink.

He packs for Brandon, Manitoba in his childhood bedroom. Philip Banks stands in the doorway, ignoring Charlie the way he always ignores Charlie, as if Charlie is a creaky floorboard you habitually step over, a nuisance so inconsequential as to be unworthy of thought. 

“You’re going to be a Wheat King. That’s lame, bro,” Charlie says, just to start shit. Adam cuts him a tired look. He’s losing the roundness of his face, growing a scruffy, patchy mustache, and letting his mousy hair get floppy and top-heavy. Not even his wrister can make this look good; Charlie figures that’s why there’s never any girls sniffing around Adam’s hindparts, even though he’s talented and smart and kind, really unbelievably kind.

Mr. Banks’ voice is hard and flat. “The OHL is the top prospect pool for the NHL Draft.”

Of course Charlie fucking knows that. Mr. Banks doesn’t know how they jumped up and down in the locker room after getting the news. With Adam’s arm around his waist like a championship belt and their heads knocking together, they sang the school fight song until every other Duck in the room joined in. The whole mess devolved into a chaos of quacking and shouting and profanity until they headed to evening study hall, but afterward, only the two of them left, Charlie told Adam the Wheat Kings were his new favorite team.

“You’re a Duck,” Adam had argued, his smile splitting his face in two.

Charlie had shrugged himself back under Adam’s warm, heavy arm. “My favorite player’s a Wheat King.” 

“We’re going to be late for study hall.”

“We’re skipping it.”

They hopped a bus off campus, ate a whole large pizza, and conned a dude outside a gas station into buying them a six pack, which they drank on a fire escape in an alley on a street they didn’t know, feet dangling, arms threaded through the metal railing, mouths running nonstop about big dreams. 

Mr. Banks doesn’t know any of that. He’ll always think Charlie’s just an asshole kid from District 5 not bright enough to understand how the game is played, so why not play the part?

“I’m just saying. Wheat King. Dumb mascot.” Charlie shrugs. Mr. Banks presses his lips together and swallows his frustration, but Adam’s eyes twinkle as he hides a smile.

Adam understands. 

  
  
  
  
  


The NHL Draft is a big deal, and Charlie’s there for Adam. None of the other Ducks are. It isn’t jealousy; that would be easy because Charlie could have talked them out of that, captained them into keeping close to Adam, but he’s just not one of them and they’re not what he is. Neither is Charlie actually. He loves hockey, yes, and when he laces up his skates and takes the ice, he sheds every worry he’s ever had. It’s freedom out there. 

But Adam doesn’t just play hockey; he _is_ hockey. He’s the pass right to his tape, his blades spraying snow, his mouthguard hanging halfway out tucked between his teeth. He’s that breathless, unreal instant where the game is neither won nor lost as the puck flies through the air. 

Averman quit his junior year to join the Drama Club. Gaffney’s accepted a softball scholarship for college. Russ wasn’t joking when he always reminded them he had to study; they thought it was to pass, turns out it was to be so freaking brilliant he’d get into Brown. They could all always see the end of hockey before real life starts, even Charlie who plans to stave it off a few more years in the NCAA.

The Carolina Hurricanes select Adam Banks in the first round. He’s a Red Tilson Trophy winner who led his team to the finals. 

Mrs. Banks hugs him first. Adam looks at his dad over her shoulder and hugs Charlie next, maybe hoping that tight, desperate squeeze will take the sting out of Mr. Banks sticking out his hand for a firm handshake.

“I love you guys.” Adam looks at the three people he brought with him before he goes up to get his new jersey.

Knowing the Banks family won’t, Charlie says it for them, loud and grinning. “We love you too.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Charlie struggles to accomplish anything the next few hours in the apartment. He washes baby bottles with his right hand, wishing they had sprung for a place with a dishwasher, while Jem wiggles tucked between his left arm and his chest. 

Every time he puts the infant down, he squalls. The baby books claim this is the fourth trimester, a time when babies want to be held close at all times, but Charlie’s only one person and one-handed meals for himself are becoming increasingly bleak. So far today he’s eaten peanut butter on crackers, a messy affair of plunging the saltines directly into the peanut butter and leaving behind chunks and crumbs, and a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup he found in the back of the pantry and dumped into a microwave-safe bowl.

To his immense relief, the door swings open at 6 p.m. His exhaustion makes his eyes ache, his brain sloppy, but then he sees Adam, who didn’t knock and has on a Canes beanie even though it’s 80 degrees outside and looks like an answered prayer. Except for his wide, shocked eyes, mouth dropping open like a cartoon character who has seen a total babe.

Or in this case, a total baby. 

“Yeah, man, it wasn’t some crazy prank,” Charlie says. “It’s real life.”

“Holy _fuck.”_ Adam drops onto the couch like he’s been shot, throws his duffel in the diminished pile of baby supplies by the door. Charlie figures he deserves a white knight who shows up unasked and then freaks out; it matches the rhythm of this last month. “You have an actual kid. Shit, Conway. That’s a real baby.”

Charlie blinks down at Jem, awake and pleasantly snuggly. Jem blinks back, and a surge of something heady zips down his spine. All the yawns he’s swallowed, gathered into a sharp knot in his stomach, dissipate. 

“Yeah.” His voice is soft this time. “He’s real. Banksy, this is Jem Conway.”

He sits down on the couch beside Adam and thrusts the baby into his arms. Asking for permission is just going to be awkward because Adam doesn’t want to hold a baby. He’s a twenty year old professional hockey player in the offseason; he wants to do coke and tequila shots with hot strangers in the Caribbean and pick up people too pretty to look at directly in real life.

To his credit, though, he’s here, and sitting statue-still holding Jem.

“You can talk to him,” Charlie says. It took him almost 24 hours to really get that advice himself, to see this crying, napping, pooping thing as a fellow human being who might like hearing words. “He’s learning to focus on faces.”

“How the heck do you know that?”

Charlie points to a parenting book pinned open on the kitchen counter with a pair of rubber bands. “It’s got these milestones by the week.”

Adam stares at him, the strained shock still his most prominent visible emotion.

“C’mon, try it. Just introduce yourself.”

“Uh… okay.” Adam adjusts a little. “Hey Jem. I’m Adam.”

Jem smiles, a sure sign he’s passing silent gas and working up to a liquid bowel movement. Better not to mention that to Adam just yet.

“He says it’s nice to meet you,” Charlie grins. “But I’m going to take him back now. It’s time for him to eat.”

“I ordered food,” Adam says weakly. “It’s pizza from your place.”

“Should be fast and fresh then,” Charlie quips. 

They fall into a silent rhythm. Charlies knows all the tells when Adam isn’t ready to talk. Back when he was a kid, he read them daily like his stepfather read the newspaper. Coach Bombay even used to call it checking the weather, the way both he and Charlie scrutinized the set of Adam’s thin shoulders and wide mouth. Some days, he needed to talk about how most people didn’t like him very much, maybe even including his own father. Other days, he needed silence most of all.

Finally, when Charlie has Jem slurping down his bottle and the pizza has arrived, sprawled on the couch between them and smelling like mushrooms and Italian sausage, Adam finds his words.

“How the hell do you have a baby?”

Charlie doesn’t choose the short version: he tells the whole saga and makes sure to include every sordid detail so Adam can judge him accordingly. He’s not proud of it.

“And then I couldn’t sign the damn papers. Jem could have had these great parents,” Charlie’s voice hitches, “but I couldn’t do it. So they went and took him from them and brought him here to me. I didn’t even name him. I wasn’t there when he was born. I haven’t even called my mom.”

“Since he came home?”

“Since I found out he existed.”

“Charlie…”

“I didn’t think it would matter! I didn’t think she’d ever find out I’d done something stupid like knock a girl up.”

Shit, Charlie was the product of a young guy skipping a condom and running out on the consequences. His mom is going to be heartbroken, and a dark, honest part of him knows she can’t help. She can’t help herself, she couldn’t do enough to help her own kid. The only grandchild she can handle is the one she won’t have now: the one who comes several years into a happy, financially stable marriage.

Thankfully Adam changes the subject. “Are you going to eat?” 

“I’m no good with one hand yet,” Charlie admits. He shrugs, careful not to jostle Jem. 

Adam grabs a fresh slice of the pizza and holds it out. “Take a bite. There you go. Eat, and then we’ll get you some sleep, and we’ll figure out the rest later.”

Charlie eats three slices of his favorite pizza while Jem polishes off the rest of his dinner. Between bites, he answers Adam’s barrage of questions. With the pizza finished, he begins feverishly taking notes on his phone about how often to give a bottle and how long to heat it up and how to change a diaper. 

“Go to bed. You look awful,” Adam says. He shakes his phone. “I’ll wake you up if I can’t figure something out based on all this.”

“It’s a lot…”

Adam nods. “That’s why you look like a zombie.”

“His bassinet’s in my room though, so…”

“What the fuck is a bassinet?”

“A crib.”

“Then I’ll hold him.” Adam makes it sound like it’s perfectly normal for him to hold infants all night long and tend to their every need, and Charlie accepts this false bravado because he’s never been this tired before. He lays Jem down into Adam’s waiting arms and stays a few extra seconds, wraps his arms around and breathes into the hard bone of Adam’s shoulder. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers, suddenly, embarrassingly on the verge of tears.

Adam’s voice vibrates into his hair, a little desperate as if he wishes he could be hugging back. “I’m here as long as you want me.”

As Charlie brushes his teeth -- oh shit, when did he last do that? Was it this morning sometime or last night sometime? -- and peels out of his clothes, he can’t stop the tears from coming. They leak from his eyes in solitary drops, wiped away as quickly as they escape, and when he puts his head on the pillow, he misses Jem so instantly it hits him like a cross check to the sternum.

“You guys okay?” He doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard in the tiny apartment.

“It’s been five minutes.” Adam sounds amused.

His sleep sneaks up on him before he can worry any further, knocks him out dreamless and fearless for eight straight hours.

  
  
  
  


They make a to-do list to post on the fridge:

  1. Figure out carseat
  2. Go to the grocery store
  3. Make a plan
  4. Tell Mom



They don’t get started for a few days. Instead, they take turns doing the baby thing. Charlie takes advantage of a second set of arms, knocks out the rest of the laundry, cleans old, moldy crap out of the fridge, scrubs the toilet. Adam offers to help, but he’s reading the parenting books on the couch, talking down to Jem with this silly smile, and Charlie would rather do the grunt work than interrupt that. 

When Jem sleeps, Charlie knows he should sleep, but that’s time with Adam. They catch their breath, Adam on his phone sitting too close, Charlie with his head dropped back against the couch just talking. He talks about how he doesn’t feel like a dad yet, not really, and how his mom is not going to understand, and how he knows he can’t stay in school right now and that the guys will help him break out of the lease, will find someone to sublet, but then he’ll be homeless.

Adam listens and occasionally puts his hand on Charlie’s shoulder until the warmth anchors him again.

They’ve survived a week of this, complete with an outing in the rental car with the carseat. Charlie is so nervous he makes Adam pull over twice so he can recheck the buckles and straps. Installing it hadn’t been hard except for it suddenly making Charlie remember every high school driver’s ed video he’s ever seen. He’s looking at Jem, eight pounds of defenseless, and remembering _Prom Night Nightmare,_ a ketchup-splattered warning about what happens when a car flips and the occupants die. Even that’s better than _I Killed My Best Friend,_ a 1970s special his teacher pulled out on film reel before the Ducks went to the state championship. 

So if he checks everything one too many times, so be it. Blame education.

They’ve made budgets on scrap paper, Charlie shamelessly opening his bank statements in front of Adam, wishing he could black out the times he hit the single digits at the end of the last semester. But he needs his help figuring out how to change the numbers on the page because the mountain of diapers beside the door is shrinking by the day. Every budget makes Adam frown so hard he wrinkles, though some of that is Charlie’s loopy, messy handwriting and his criss-crossing arrows connecting ideas.

It’s ten p.m. on a Saturday, and Jem is asleep in his bassinet for once, deigning to be put down. 

“I’ve got a plan,” Adam announces suddenly. He hands his phone over to Charlie with a list typed up. Charlie tries to read and listen to Adam’s steady voice at the same time. “Come to Raleigh with me. I have my own apartment. There’s a guest room that could be yours and Jem’s.”

He plows over Charlie’s open-mouthed argument before it can begin. “I won’t pay for you. My rent and utilities literally won’t change, and you’ll have to do it alone a lot. A lot. Once the season starts, the schedule is insane, but until it starts, we can do what we’re doing here while you figure out a full-time job and a babysitter.”

Charlie wants to say yes so badly he thinks he already has, like it slipped out of its own free will. Adam’s eyes are steely, determined, and Charlie’s never been able to argue with that. 

“This isn’t your fuck up,” Charlie murmurs, finding the old water stain on the ceiling to stare at so he doesn’t fold.

But Adam grabs his shoulder and shakes him back to looking at him. “Jem’s not a fuck up.”

No, Jem’s not a fuck up. Charlie’s life might be -- single parenthood without any money, any real job prospects, any meaningful plan -- but Jem’s not.

“I hate being your charity case,” Charlie says. “I was on track for a marketing degree. I had a five year plan.”

“Would you do it for me?” 

“Of course.” 

There’s no hesitation. He’d blown all his textbook money on a plane ticket and rinkside seats to the Canes home opener his freshman year even though Adam hadn’t been certain he would play and had promised tickets later in the season. And when Banksy had skated out onto that NHL ice for the first real time, visibly nervous, he had seen Charlie there and fucking glowed. They’d fist bumped through the glass, grinning like fools. 

If Adam needed anything Charlie could give, he’d give it. No questions asked. 

“Me too,” Adam says simply.

This apartment is the first place Charlie started building his life. He walked into it without a clue after scheduling a tour with the complex, and when the representative made offhand comments about security deposits and utilities, Charlie’s mouth had gone dry. He’d had no clue what any of it meant. If he’d called his mom, she would have been able to help, but he wanted this to be his. He was the one who picked the place and then found the roommates, he was the one who had scrounged together the whole security deposit, and he is the one who found this couch sitting beside a dumpster and spent two days shampooing it with Suave before bringing it inside.

Saying goodbye to this apartment without a degree in hand is the death of a dream. 

“Okay,” Charlie says. “Thank you. I know this is…” His throat catches on the words, closes tight.

Adam just scoots closer on the couch, throws his arm across Charlie’s shoulders, and tugs him closer.

“I know.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


God, packing is the worst thing ever. There’s layers upon layers of it, each one making Charlie shred up another piece of pride and independence. He can’t afford a U-Haul to drive across the country, so Adam disappears a few hours and returns with this massive van neither of them should drive. They’ve already been hoofing around in his overdue rental, carseat strapped in the back.

Charlie spends hours on the phone, calling the bursar’s office, the registrar’s office, his coach, his roommates. With every minute on the line, heart pounding and chest tight with anxiety, he finds it easier to repeat the easy words: _I won’t be returning to UND this year. I have had a change in my family circumstances. No, there’s nothing that needs to be done. No, I’m not in danger._

He should just tell them there’s a baby on his lap while he talks, laying along his legs looking up at him as if learning his face, but he can’t stand the thought of dropping all this cosmic blame on Jem, even just with words. He’d rather people think he’s just a flake, a failure, a kid from the dirty side of Minneapolis who lived up to his statistics. 

The last phone call he makes before turning his key into the apartment complex’s central office is to his mom. He chooses a time he knows she isn’t at work, the lull before an overnight waitressing shift, where she’ll be watching Court TV on the couch in her sweatpants, still groggy from living off of human circadian rhythms. 

She picks up, the litigious mumble of Hot Bench in the background.

Even though he’s selected these words carefully, planned them in the shower and on a sticky note and at 2:30 in the morning while Jem eats a late night meal, Charlie fumbles more than he expected.

“Charlie, what?” She just keeps repeating his name, and he can imagine her face through her voice. She’s curled in on herself on their yellow print couch with tears on her face and her lower lip wobbling, looking for all the world like a child herself. 

“It’s a done deal. Adam’s already got the boxes in the truck,” Charlie says. “We’re going to Raleigh.”

“You need to come _home._ ”

“I made a different plan, Mom.”

And he gets it, okay? He gets it. His mom always wanted to be his world. She used to watch her sappy movies where these grown-up sons would hug their moms so tightly, cling to them as perfect guideposts in an ugly reality. She had a vision for the relationship they would have, and this isn’t it. He broke her heart by refusing to come home from college, never bringing her his laundry like the other kids. After all, he could scrounge for quarters at school easier than she could, and his laundromat was in the same building, not a multi-block walk away. His mom’s last names could be a Trivia Night item he might not even get right; he always forgets the one between his middle school stepdad and his sophomore year stepdad.

She had done the best she could. He loves her. He cannot go home.

“This is not how it’s done,” she says, a quiver like anger in her voice. 

“What?”

“If you mess up and you have a baby out of wedlock, you don’t just get to go play house with a professional athlete. You have to figure it out, Charlie, and it’s hard every single day, but _you_ have to make it happen.”

The cold zips down his spine. Perhaps she does not even know her own bitterness, the shades of her own life coloring her words grey. He knows better than to touch any of that.

“It’s not playing house,” he argues instead.

It’s that line running through his head that night while he hand washes the last dirty bottle, ignoring the sound of Adam reading an article called “Top Ten Kid Attractions in Raleigh” to Jem.

“The Marbles Kids Museum is a hands-on interactive destination that inspires children to be creative thinkers, active learners, and confident individuals,” Adam reads like the baby is going to sit up and enthusiastically ask to go.

“Hey,” Charlie calls his attention and hears the pad of his sock feet as he walks over. “Look, I know we already packed up 90% of my shit and made our plans, but after I called Mom today, I was thinking… Is this going to mess up your, y’know, image?”

Charlie feels Adam stiffen behind him and keeps facing forward.

“I just know you haven’t… It’s the NHL,” he finishes.

“Yeah,” Adam says quietly. “But it’ll be okay.”

Because he wants very much to believe that, Charlie does.

  
  
  
  
  
  


On a bitter cold day, home from juniors for a long weekend, Adam confesses he’s gay the way one would confess to brutal murder or terminal cancer. His voice cannot decide if it’s a terrible sin or a fatal blow dealt by fate, only knows it’s catastrophic. 

He stares at Charlie from under his oversized hat, swaying on his skates, and waits.

“That’s cool, dude,” Charlie says. He reaches out to close his hand around Adam’s arm at the elbow, pressing hard enough to find the hint of flesh under the puffy coat and winter layers. “I mean it. It’s not bad.”

He left unsaid all the things they both already knew. You can’t be gay in hockey. You don’t want to be a trailblazer. You’re not _good enough._ Fuck, is anybody good enough to step out on that ledge?

Adam grabbed him back and held on tight. 

Charlie left unsaid other things like how he had a boyfriend sometimes now. That first year of high school, he swaggered in to announce himself both a jock and a ladies’ man. Maybe he’d sold the performance, or at least the other Ducks let him sell the performance, nice Linda with her soft hair and activism let him pretend, but with Adam gone, he was past the charade. He played decent high school hockey and neither hid nor announced his dates. 

It didn’t seem right to intrude on Adam’s moment and make it his own.

When he kept his mouth shut then, he fully expected to tell Adam later, but Adam never brought up his sexuality again. If he dated quietly in candlelit moments away from the rink, he never said it on the phone or in texts or in any of those all-too-short visits, so Charlie didn’t mention it either. Maybe Adam wanted there to be one place in the world where none of it existed at all.

Charlie could give him peace.

  
  
  
  
  
  


They pull out of the apartment complex in separate vehicles, Adam in the U-Haul leading the charge, Charlie and Jem following closely to a fresh start.

Before they left, Charlie looked back at the little place he’d made home and ignored the lump in his throat. Instead, he gazed down at the infant in the carrier, the smile on his mouth pinched at the corners, a little wobbly. 

“This is going to be good,” Adam said, clapping his shoulder. “This is the great adventure you always wanted. You just don’t know it yet.”

Adam has always been good at saying weird shit that’s just what Charlie needs.

He repeats it to himself, to Jem, to the endless chatter of talk radio as he drives across the country.

“This is going to be good,” he tells the universe, voice rising like a question.

  
  
  
  


(end of part I)

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Charlie Conway becomes a father in the quiet drudgery and joy of Jem’s first year of life. He never pinpoints a moment when it feels real, permanent, forever, but somewhere in the endless diapers and tears and sleeplessness and smiles and changes, fatherhood becomes his purpose. He never loses the fear, but he finds everything else._

_“Daddy loves you,” he says every time he thinks it so Jem will always know._

_He gets a job at a little grocery store less than a block from the daycare he picks out. Adam wanted a nanny, left out glossy pamphlets from a ritzy nearby agency and wrote out longhand justifications for why it was an expense he should be allowed to cover, but Charlie selects a quiet, clean neighborhood childcare. He calls the women there Miss Judy and Miss Asha and listens to the million little ways they know and love his son._

_Somewhere in the blurry weeping of Jem cutting his first tooth, Charlie paces the lobby of the apartment building in the middle of the night, trying to let Adam sleep, knowing he has a game tomorrow. He talks to the night doorman who suggests he learn a trade._

_He applies for an apprenticeship as an elevator repair worker. He thinks it will feel like giving up, but instead, he crows for joy when he’s accepted._

_He builds a new plan, so he will be able to leave behind this apartment, stand on his own two feet, stop relying on the soft comfort and bulwark strength of Adam._

_Only he cannot imagine that day without gut-wrenching sadness. There’s a hockey schedule posted on the fridge, a rhythm of home stands and road trips, of wins and losses. Jem knows the sound of travel bags hitting the floor beside the door, lighting up from anywhere in the apartment when he hears it. When the offseason returns after a disappointing first round playoff exit, Adam refuses to take Jem to daycare, keeping him every day on his own, promising it’s no problem._

_Charlie wants to live this shared life he has no right to until it feels real, permanent, forever._

  
  
  
  


The season starts back up in late August, and Adam pins up the new season on the fridge. The first day of mandatory practice, Charlie is off, but he’s surprised when he wakes up late, after 7 a.m. He lays there, listens for the irritated squall of a baby who’s always awake at 5 a.m., but hears nothing instead. He opens one bleary eye to take in the empty crib and cracked bedroom door. 

“Do you have Jem?” He hollers without standing up. 

There’s laughter in Adam’s voice. “No. He’s on a Starbucks run.”

“Smartass,” Charlie mutters, but he rolls over and closes his eyes again, soaks in the quiet and the coolness of the other side of the pillow. He stays like that even as he hears the door open and Adam’s sock feet pad on the floor, even as the bed sinks at the edge and the pillow does the same thing.

When the cheerful baby starts tugging at his hair and laughing, Charlie rolls over to see his son sitting up on the pillow beside him. Jem’s still in his pajamas -- Pete the Cat in his school shoes -- and so’s Adam -- plain grey sweats.

“Hey there,” Charlie says to them both. He blows a loud, long raspberry on Jem’s stomach, and the giggles are so sweet, he does it again. “You must want breakfast, huh?”

“He already ate part of my banana,” Adam says. 

“Yeah?” Charlie eases himself upright, tugs Jem into his lap. “Shouldn’t you be getting out of here?”

Adam nods. “I’m about to get dressed. I had an idea though.”

Charlie nods, waiting for him to go on, and Jem crawls off his lap over to Adam who pulls him in wordlessly.

“Why don’t you and Jem come to practice? You’re off, it’s the first one so there’ll be a little crowd, a little bit of fuss. You can tell me what you think after,” Adam says, a grin trying too hard to be casual, doing nothing to disguise the hopeful note in his voice.

“You want us to come to the rink?” 

Adam shrugs. “If you want to.”

Oh, Charlie wants to. He’s wanted to go to the rink for every practice, even on the days he was exhausted and had a to-do list fifteen items long, but he’s neither of them has ever brought it up. Charlie always assumed it was about the optics. He’s never met Adam’s agent, but he imagines him as a slight, tidy man with glasses halfway down his nose, tsking over this whole situation. 

“What you say, Jemmy? Want to go watch hockey?”

They’ve been to real games, of course, joined the raucous crowd of Caniacs, Jem in oversized protective headphones and Charlie in one of the many Banks jerseys in the crowd. Practice is different. It feels like a statement.

But Jem claps his hands and babbles “Dam, Dam,” one of his three words and not to be confused with “Dada” or “No.” 

“I guess we’d better all get dressed,” Charlie says.

They ride together to the rink, and Adam takes over the radio for once, playing The Struts a little too loud and tapping out the drumbeats on the steering wheel.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The first time Adam brought home a teammate, Charlie had fretted over it. Did he try to slip in every explanation he could in the first ten minutes, find any excuse to overshare incredibly personal details of his life to protect Adam’s secret, Adam’s secret that actually had nothing at all to do with his living situation? 

But left wing Lars Nilsson, came in and introduced himself with a hug. He played with Jem on the floor and talked about his nieces and nephews until Charlie felt like he knew them too. Adam was different around Lars. They moved like people missing their skates, synchronized in diet and schedule and formations, and Charlie missed that in his bones. Only the long, hard grind of months of hockey together could create that camaraderie. This year has been the first in his life Charlie hasn’t had teammates.

Lars comes to visit periodically. So do a few other guys from the team. They small talk with Charlie just fine, pay full homage to the high-spirited baby, make appropriate jokes about the unusual living arrangement.

Afterwards, Charlie always texts someone who knew him as a hockey player, someone from before who will never think of him as a dad first.

  
  
  
  
  


[Averman] _big news: I am getting married! She said yes!_

[Goldberg] _to your ugly mug? No way. Congrats!!!!!_

[Conway] _First Duck wedding!_

[Goldberg] _how’d you ask?_

[Averman] _nothing too crazy. I made a nice dinner and burned it and then had to order Italian from our favorite restaurant, but she still said yes._

[Goldberg] _gag that’s so sweet_

[Russ] _just don’t make me sit next to goldie at the party. Congratulations!_

[Fulton] _we’re getting old!!!!_

[Portman] _speak for yourself_

  
  
  
  


When Jem is only 8 months old, they fly out for Les Averman’s wedding, Adam tense as hell about seeing the Ducks for the first time since going pro, Charlie panicked about flying with a baby, Jem delighting the people on his flight by not crying once. 

Minneapolis in March might not sound beautiful, but Charlie derives strength from the familiarity: he turns down old streets thoughtlessly, eats ice cream in 40 degree weather just to try Carl’s flavor-of-the-week, rides the bus to his Mom’s apartment and tries not to cry too when she weeps on Jem’s tiny head, heartbroken and ecstatic all at once to be finally meeting him. 

“Dude, you’re not bringing the baby?” Averman calls him after he texts about his mom keeping Jem during the wedding.

“She’s just getting to know him,” Charlie says, “and we’re only here for the weekend because Adam has a game.”

“Bring her too. We all want to meet the Duckling.”

And isn’t that just too fucking precious to ignore? So Adam drives them all to the wedding, awkwardly silent, as if he thinks he's an interloper on the Conway family. It's like he doesn't know he's the center for Charlie and everything else extends out from him. Through the ceremony, Adam sits stiff and uncertain until Jem progresses from squawking to wailing. Adam actually looks relieved for an excuse to get out of there. Charlie half-listens to the vows, keeping an ear out for the muffled crying outside the church to fade. 

At the reception, Averman glows, never goes anywhere in the bright hall without his new wife’s hand in his, and Adam finally relaxes. He lets people hug him and chirp him about the Canes’ season and being an inbred Southerner now until he actually laughs. Charlie throws an arm around his shoulders and hands him the baby.

“Adam Banks smiles at someone besides Jem,” Charlie teased. “I never thought I’d see the day. My work here is done.” 

He hits up the open bar, has his first, second, and third beers since an infant showed up at his home, and dances two songs with his mother, blurry and buzzed. 

“I’m happy for you,” she says, and he doesn’t know what she means.

But he is happy too, for after three hours of old friends and new stories and bad dance moves, he stumbles back into a hotel room, leaning into Adam’s steady heat, listening to impossibly soft snuffles of the sleeping baby. He disrobes, khakis abandoned by the door, button-down at the foot of his bed, but before he collapses on those enticing, inviting pillows, he kisses Jem’s head.

“Good night, Jemmy. Daddy loves you.”

He admires Adam, tie undone and eyes bright, and impulsively kisses his nose. 

“Love you too, Banksy.”

Being hungover for the flight home is miserable but worth it.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Charlie hates August in Raleigh. It’s grotesque, the air thick as soup, the sweat pouring out of your skin useless to save you from the humidity. So the crisp, cool of the rink is sweet relief. He breathes in the smells he could never describe but would know anywhere, grinning like a fool. Adam laughs at him.

“You know practices are open to the public. You could have been coming every time you weren’t at work,” he says. He leans in and kisses Jem until he gets a giggle, bumps his shoulder against Charlie, and then heads for the locker room. 

In the stands, Charlie takes in the crowd, small but dedicated. The ratio of kids and dads is higher than most places he goes, though Jem is the youngest little one by far. By the time the players take the ice, Jem has already lost interest in the pile of toys and board books brought along for his entertainment. He wants to be put down to crawl around the scuzzy concrete floor, grunting as he tries to launch himself off his dad’s lap.

“C’mon, buddy. Look out there. It’s hockey,” Charlie says, his voice going a little high.

“Dam,” Jem says as he always does when hockey is on the TV or comes up in conversation. “Dam. Dam. Dam.” 

His chant gets louder, and a kid a few rows down turns around with wide, excited eyes. 

“That’s a bad word,” the little girl says, sounding both shocked and impressed. “He shouldn’t say bad words.”

The man beside her turns around sheepishly and speaks to her in that deliberate way adults use to make sure the other adult hears, an apologetic smile on his face. “Honey, he’s just a baby. It’s not a bad word.”

“Damn is always a bad word,” she says sagely.

“He’s not really saying damn,” Charlie has no idea why he feels compelled to defend his son considering he’s the kind of parent who routinely says fuck. “He just can’t say Adam.”

“Is Adam his daddy?” She asks. “My daddy’s other name is Tripp.”

“No,” he chooses his words carefully. “Adam’s the only hockey player he knows. I’ve been friends with Adam Banks since we were your age.”

It’s a lie, yes, but such a gentle one he doesn’t mind. Plus her dad -- Tripp, he guesses -- looks impressed now. 

“I’m going to be a hockey player,” she says. “But I want my real name on my jersey. Isabella.”

“That makes sense,” Charlie says.

She turns back to the ice, and Jem accepts Charlie’s lap as an inescapable prison, chewing on one of his stacking rings and waving a board book. 

Watching practice is nothing like watching a game. At gametime, Adam skates in calm, controlled strokes, slows down the madness and physicality of the game with cerebral command, but here in practice, he’s a man possessed by unmatched intensity, a striving for more that hurts a little to watch. He’s a man, no, he’s _the_ boy still trying to prove he belongs. 

Charlie knows this Adam, though he has not seen him in action in years. This is him shooting 100 times before dinner and keeping a mental list of every way he let himself down, making the Varsity, outplaying them all and still apologizing for not being better, winning the shootout at the Junior Goodwill Games with a broken wrist and handing the American flag over to Charlie like it should have been his.

After the final whistle, Adam outlasts every other coach, every other player, repeating everything until it’s good enough (it’ll never be good enough), and finally skates off the ice.

For the next week, Charlie cannot shake the way Adam asks him about practice afterward.

“What’d you think? There’s a lot I’m working on.”

“I think you’re great,” Charlie says firmly, intensely, wishing he could come up with something to chase the insecurity from Adam’s eyes.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The first months of the season fly by as they resume last year’s familiar, frenetic rhythm. One night, when Jem spikes a high fever, Charlie finds himself sitting alone in an ER stall, separated by only a curtain from other people having terrible nights, wishing he knew the wives of Adam’s teammates so he could call someone who would understand what it’s like to wait for your baby to come back from a chest x-ray while the other person you do this thing with is playing a game across the country.

Jem is okay, though, sent home with antibiotics and a nebulizer for use twice a day. When Charlie calls Adam, he asks if he needs to catch a plane.

“They’ll let me go for a family emergency,” Adam says, and God, Charlie loves him for not seeing the flaw in his plan.

“We’re okay. You just beat the Kings tomorrow night, and we’ll be here when you get back.”

The Canes win handily, prove Southern hockey is here to stay, and Adam scores two goals, the second one a wraparound so perfect Charlie can’t believe the two of them are products of the same early coaches. Adam takes his post-game interview sitting down, sweaty and smiling and still a little breathless. He spits cliches until the sports journalists have to be wincing, asking yet another question on the prayer of getting a worthwhile sound bite. 

“How are you feeling about wrapping up this West Coast road trip with a winning record?” 

Adam looks around then as if finding the camera, and Charlie swears he’s looking right at him.

“It always feels great to win, and it feels even better to get home to the people you love. I’ll be there soon.”

“I bet. Well, thanks, Banksy.”

“Anytime.” Adam flashes a polite, media-trained smile before the camera goes dark. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Last holiday season, Jem only a few months old and their lives still more mess than routine, Adam had pinned handwritten lists all over the apartment with reminders and instructions before he flew home to Minnesota for a three day weekend to celebrate Christmas. Neither Charlie nor his mom had money for a plane ticket, and even though Adam tried to find ways to gift one (“It’s a Christmas present for Jem to meet his grandma. It’s not for you, fuckface”), Charlie turned them all down.

But this year, Casey’s had more time to save, comes and visits for Thanksgiving, even though the Canes are on the road and she hates missing Adam.

And this time, Adam tells Charlie his parents are coming to spend Christmas here. The holiday is sandwiched between two home games. There’s no way around it. 

Even knowing it’s inevitable doesn’t make it better, especially with Jem in the throes of what the pediatrician calls the 18 month sleep regression. Of course, he’d get to it a little early; he’s always been precocious. Adam put a crib in his room too just a few months into the first year since there’s no nursery and he insists on sharing some nighttime duties with Charlie, so both of them are exhausted. 

Charlie hears the knock on the door when he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth after a desperate attempt at an afternoon catnap that neither he nor Jem took. His reflection is grim, dark circles under his eyes, patchy scruff around his mouth and cheeks in an indiscriminate pattern. At least his hair looks good, close-cropped and professional, unlike Adam who’s working on a long-term plan for a ferocious playoff mullet.

Like hair is going to impress the Banks parents. He glances over at Jem who is standing beside the toilet, stretching to splash in the water. 

“We’re not making a very good impression, kid,” Charlie says as he scoops him up and washes his hands. “The first time they met me, I was Adam’s loser friend, and the first time they met you, you spit up all over Adam’s game day suit.”

He smiles at them in the mirror and lifts Jem up to stand on the edge of the counter, carefully supporting him as they both stare at the mirror.

“Where’s your tummy?” Charlie says. Jem touches his stomach. “Good job! Where’s your…”

Charlie pretends to think hard. “Nose. Where’s your nose?”

Jem touches his nose.

“You’re so smart!” Charlie picks him up and spins him around. “Are you going to be a good boy around Adam’s parents?”

“No!” Jem laughs.

But it turns out the little almost-toddler didn’t tell the truth. He walks out into the living room on his own, makes his way right to Adam and hides charmingly behind his leg, peeping out at the strangers in the living room. Mr. Banks -- he’ll always be Mr. Banks to Charlie, no matter how much he’s supposedly an adult now -- is standing at the refrigerator, reading the schedule and shopping list pinned there, and Mrs. Banks is telling Adam something about the snow back home. 

“Hi, Mr. Banks,” Charlie starts there. “How was your flight?”

“Good, good,” he says. “Adam says you’ve started a new career.”

Charlie nods. “Yes, sir. Elevator repair. It’s not sexy, but it’ll pay the bills.”

Mr. Banks looks around this apartment, oversized, beautiful, so far outside of Charlie’s budget Zillow would laugh at him and turns back to him like he _knows,_ knows Charlie could afford his daycare bills and a little rent on his own these days, that it would be tight and perhaps unpleasant but possible. Charlie swallows and looks away first.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mr. Banks says. Charlie peeks over: Jem has wandered off to play with blocks, and Adam and his mom have both softened, taken seats on the couch, paying no attention to the conversation in the kitchen.

“I couldn’t have done this past year and a half without Adam,” Charlie says. He doesn't know why he says it. This kitchen isn’t a confessional booth, and Mr. Banks is no priest, and if he was hoping for brownie points for honesty, he doesn’t get them.

“We all know that,” Mr. Banks replies. “Everyone knows there’s a lot of things over the years you couldn’t have done without Adam.”

Charlie’s chest tightens. Wouldn’t it be great to be sixteen again, talking shit in Adam’s bedroom, making the vein in Mr. Banks’ neck throb? But he’s a father now too, and he sees everything a little differently. He can imagine Jem, his own flesh and blood, as a star on his way to the top, befriending a kid from the wrong side of the tracks and never being able to shake him. If Adam were Jem, would he want him to have a Charlie in his life?

He’s not sure he likes that answer.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The Bankses go back to their hotel after dinner, and the apartment transforms into home again so instantly Charlie is embarrassed. He knows Adam loves his parents, even though he dreads and worries over their visits, but Charlie hates who he is when they’re here, quiet, cowed, performing his tricks like an eager dog praying his owner has a treat in his hand. And Mr. Banks has always been too careful not to give the treats too often as if he’s afraid Adam will lose his intensity and drive without the constant uncertainty.

Maybe Charlie shouldn’t judge. Maybe Philip Banks made an NHL player getting to have all his dreams come true. Or maybe Adam made that in spite of him.

Adam puts Jem to bed and comes back out to the living room, sprawls out on the couch beside Charlie. The downtown lights are pretty tonight through the wide window, an artful, unintentional mix of city life and Christmas embellishment. If his stomach wasn’t still in knots from talking to Mr. Banks earlier, Charlie might think to snap a picture of it.

“You okay?” Adam asks.

“Yeah.” Normally, they flop against each other, casual in that way of teammates and brothers and roommates and best friends, but they’re both sitting up straight now, feet tucked under them in strange formality. Charlie sighs. “I don’t know. I hate having your parents here.”

“They don’t hate you.”

“Dude, don’t lie.”

“Okay.” Adam kind of chuckles. “Dad hates you. Dad hates me sometimes too. You know that. It’s just how he is. But Mom likes you, and she likes Jem. What’s not to like, y’know?”

“Nothing,” Charlie says loyally.

“Hey, can I talk to you?” Adam blurts after an awkwardly long moment. 

Because the nerves in that question worry him, Charlie jokes. “We’re literally talking right now. We’re always talking. We’ve been talking since we were ten.”

“Charlie.”

“Shit, okay, okay. Yeah, we can talk.” 

Adam gets up and disappears into his bedroom. He reemerges with a manila folder Charlie recognizes. It should be a betrayal: that folder is his, and it’s private, kind of, because he wishes it didn’t exist and didn’t know Adam knew it existed. It’s a folder full of the plans to get on his own two feet: a printed copy of active apartment listings, bank statements with handwritten, question mark-laden projections, the business cards of a few in-home sitters who do weekend childcare sometimes. Working on these plans is a lot like eating his broccoli when he was a kid; he does it when there’s no other option because it’s good for him.

“Hey, I…” Charlie starts, but Adam cuts him right off, brisk and business-like.

“I think we should get a house,” he says. “I’m looking at what you’ve pulled here, and these apartments are fine, but I like this one ‘cause it’s right next to the rink. If we’re far enough away I have to drive, we might as well have a yard. And a paved driveway for rollerblading.”

“What?”

“I found these other listings.” He pulls papers out of the back of the folder that Charlie’s never seen before. “This one falls in this budget you wrote down pretty well. I know we have to get something we can split down the middle, but if you let me do the down payment, we can get something in a little bit better school district. Not that the district has to matter much yet. We might move again.”

“What?” Charlie repeats himself, staring at the paper. The little one story house there has a tidy front yard and weirdly circular bushes along the foundation. He doesn’t hate it.

“I know me paying for an apartment was always supposed to be temporary. I’m helping.”

God, is it possible to have flashbacks to a time that was only a year and a half ago on a shitty couch that probably cost a third of this one did before Charlie fished it out of a dumpster? Is this the only way Charlie’s life knows how to change, with Adam Banks sitting him down on a couch and offering him favors? He feels like he’s been knocked back out of his more stable shoes. What job? What four figure bank account? He’s Charlie Conway in need of a savior again.

“No, you don’t have to put a down payment on a house for me.”

“No,” Adam is firm. “Not for you. For us. Like the three of us.”

“What?” Charlie’s really tired of saying that, but his mouth is faster than his brain.

“I know this isn’t a long-term plan in this apartment. Jem doesn’t even have a room. He’s got two cribs and no bedroom. And I know you’re an adult now and don’t really need me to… do this.” His voice drops, soft, vulnerable. “But I love you guys. We’re a family. So I think we can get on equal footing without having to break this thing up. Jem’s used to both of us, and I would… I’d really miss you.”

For an instant, Charlie values the Southern wisdom of having a separate plural for you because he doesn’t know if that you is y’all or the singular.

“This time, I think I’m your charity case,” Adam finishes. “You’ve already made the plan. I’m just asking you to let me come too.” 

Charlie thinks about all the years they’ve been friends. Adam has never asked anyone for anything, just put his head down and been there for everybody, and he’s not sure he believes it now. If Adam suspected how much Charlie doesn’t want to be alone, doesn’t want to leave, this is how he would handle it. But there’s something honest in his face, an earnest hopefulness like he’s still waiting to be told he gets to be on the team, like he belongs.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Charlie says. “I don’t want to go anywhere without you. I just can’t mooch off of you forever. Sure, Banksy, you can come live in a downgraded house with us and pretend to be one of the ordinary people. Consider it a Christmas present.”

“Thanks. Merry Christmas to me.”

“Do a favor for a buddy, and he doesn’t even say merry Christmas to you.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

They both sink down in the couch, suddenly normal, suddenly fine. Adam leans against the arm and kicks his feet over against Charlie’s leg; Charlie pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and throws it over them haphazardly.

“I don’t think I’ll say anything to my parents yet,” Adam says. “Think they’re still processing that I’m gay.”

Charlie’s heart stutters in his chest. “Oh yeah? When’d you tell them that?”

“When I was seventeen,” Adam deadpans, and the laughter just bursts out of Charlie.

  
  
  
  
  


They pick out a modest two story house in a quiet Morrisville neighborhood. It’s brick, built in the 1950s with these original wood floors that would put it out of their budget if they’d been well-maintained. Instead, they’re scuffed all to hell, and Charlie figures Jem can rollerblade indoors if he wants and it won’t matter. The front landscaping is all oversized rose bushes, a highlight in the staged photos but a detriment they’ll face the first time they have to prune the thorny things.

Charlie stares at the mailbox a long time, holding a pack of $2 mailbox letter and number stickers. Finally, he just puts the 911 numbers on it because he can’t figure out the last name thing.

He can figure that out later.

  
  
  
(end of part II)  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Charlie Conway had his 25th birthday at a pizza place within convenient walking distance of the house. A few friends came along, drank beer out of a plastic pitcher and ate two large pizzas. They ribbed Charlie for being a hotshot, the first one from their apprenticeship to get promoted to a supervisory position, and they ribbed him some more for begging the waitstaff to change the TV to Fox Sports Carolina._

_“There’s a hockey game on?” The waitress repeated, puzzled._

_The boys got it though. Charlie slowly converted everyone he befriended in Raleigh, talked up the world’s greatest game and the mental and physical toughness of its players until he had enough fellow fans for the occasional viewing party in his living room._

_The Canes lost on his 25th birthday though, their 2nd line center delivering a grouchy postgame like he was sorry about it._

_Charlie and Adam have a mortgage they pay monthly, a kid in a nice elementary school, and a brick pizza oven half-built in the backyard._

_On Jem’s first day of Kindergarten, Charlie got him ready in a pair of athletic shorts and a tee shirt with a dump truck on it, went into the bathroom to brush his own hair and teeth, and came back out to find him in a polo shirt and khaki shorts._

_“I went ahead and made him get dressed. You’re going to be late,” Adam had explained._

_“He was dressed,” Charlie had said. But Adam had been right. No matter how blase Charlie wanted to be about that first day of Kindergarten, he hated it. He wanted Jem to ask him to stay just a few minutes, to hold onto his hand and look up at him with uncertain eyes. Instead, Jem walked in on his own, found his nametag on the desk, and sat down to start coloring. He barely even said goodbye to the man who’d diapered his butt all those years._

_“I used to be cool,” Charlie’d complained to Adam that night. “And now I’m crying because a five-year-old doesn’t want to hang out with me most of all.”_

_“I was never cool,” Adam said like that made anything any better._

_Charlie had centered his life around Jem so completely he never really thought about what it might look like for Jem to have playdates and school field trips and his own life. It hardly seemed right for the five year old to have a life if he didn’t._

_“You don’t date,” he said to Adam one day, out of the blue, after a quick weekend road trip to lose to the Penguins._

_“Neither do you.”_

_No, Charlie let their lazy nights on the couch and bumping elbows in the kitchen and their tight, unyielding hugs share their warmth with that lonely place inside of him. He let the first time Adam asked him to just come along to the Canes’ Casino Night feel like magic, two of them in their tuxes, drinking liquor until everything required no second-guessing at all._

_Charlie let loving Adam be enough for years._

_Until one day it isn’t._

  
  
  
  
  


Perhaps Charlie has just watched _You’ve Got Mail_ one too many times or maybe people do routinely come to romantic revelations when trapped inside an elevator. 

He’s working in RBC Plaza, control panel disassembled around his toolbox, his frustration level mounting, when the fucking thing malfunctions. He has the door shut to keep people from asking how much longer, their eyes hopeful he would say “Just finishing up!” and then spare them from the trek up fifteen flights of stairs, when the elevator decided to lurch up. Whoever they hired last screwed this thing all up, so he finds himself trapped in the elevator between the third and fourth floor.

“The elevator is stuck,” he calls the front desk from the emergency phone. “I just wanted to let you know.”

“Oh no,” the person sounds alarmed. “Who should I call?”

“No one. I’m the repairman.”

“Oh. Well, good luck?”

“Thanks.” 

Since he has no intention of having to call firefighters to bust him out of a machine he spent four years training to repair, he sets to work. He spends hours in the frustrating silence of a tin can with ugly teal carpet, working alone, yet the passing seconds crash down on him. 

He’s 25 years old. He’s _25._ You can fuck up all your want in your late teens and early twenties. People even think it’s kind of beautiful, watch it with this wry twist of their mouths, knowing it’ll become the story you tell someday, but 25 marks a change. If you’re lucky enough to live to 100, your life is a quarter of the way over. If you’re a regular person, you’re closer to dead than that, and that’s only if you assume there’s no terrible tragedy barreling your way.

He’s 25, and he’s still never opened his damn mouth and told Adam… anything. He let himself at 17 make a decision he’s still living with. And what’s he supposed to do now? What is he even supposed to confess? Does he start by saying he’s bisexual, he’s dated guys before and just never mentioned it? Or does he dive in on the big one, the elephant in their living room he ignores every damn day? _And I’m in love with you. I didn’t always know it, but I think I’ve always been._ Or maybe he tries asking him out on a date like it’s a perfectly normal question between two co-parenting roommates of five years?

Six hours later, he screws the control panel back into place, turns the power back on, and takes the elevator to the first floor. The lone person in the lobby, the front desk clerk whose face perfectly matches his voice, claps for him. 

Charlie grins. “You have no idea, man.”

On the way home, he stops at Harris Teeter and buys two packs of Adam’s favorite lean breakfast sausages and a bundle of multi-colored flowers. It’s not the romance of the movies, but it’s a start.

“I’m home!” Charlie hollers as he throws open the front door, but no one shouts back. He kicks his shoes into the tray and follows his nose to the kitchen. Something 9 x 13 and wrapped in aluminum foil is on top of the stove. He lifts the corner. It’s salmon and rice, dotted with greens, one of the three go-to meals Adam cooks. At this point, it’s hard to tell the man from the nutrition plan. 

Through the kitchen window, he sees Adam and Jem in the backyard. Adam’s been reading about sustainable lawncare practices and refuses to rake up any leaves this year, so Jem is taking it upon himself to make the oversized piles he likes to jump in. Their mouths move like they’re arguing (because Jem will argue with anyone, even his teacher if the initial emails are any indication), but their eyes are bright, their expressions happy. 

Charlie puts the sausages in the fridge and drops the flowers in a vase.

“I got stuck in an elevator today,” he announces as he steps out the sliding glass door. 

“No way,” Adam says. “That’s the dream for you guys, right? It’s basically your version of a runaway train or a speeding bullet.”

“Ha, funny. I’m going to laugh the next time someone checks you into the boards.”

“But you got yourself out of the elevator obviously.”

“No thanks to anyone else,” Charlie mutters.

“That’s what I was saying, Supes,” Adam says. Just when Charlie thinks to himself that Jem is suspiciously quiet, Adam adds, “Jemmy, tell your dad about your day.”

Jem looks up, a smudge of dirt across his cheek, a handful of leaves crunched in his hands. The traces of the baby are long gone from his face, the hint of toddler remaining only in his round cheeks. He does not look like Charlie or like any of his vague, hazy memories of his mother. Charlie keeps waiting for his stubborn curls and chin to appear on Jem’s face, but so far, he insists on looking only like himself. Well, and once at a home playoff game against the Caps, a teenage fan asked for a picture with him, saying he looked just like Adam Banks, but that, of course, was ridiculous.

“No thank you,” Jem says politely and continues playing without making eye contact.

“Really? Today Jem got a note home from his teacher.” Adam unfolds it from his pocket, acting apparently his missed calling. “Today Jem punched a classmate. Please talk to him about the importance of using his words, not his fists.”

“You punched someone?” Charlie’s stomach swoops in a strange mix of defensiveness and guilt. Charlie was a biter during his terrible threes (because, yes, it was the threes, not the twos that were turbulent and awful with this one) and had been one strike away from getting kicked out of daycare over it. Whoever had to pick him up used to scuttle in the door like a puppy expecting a kick every time. But that’s been years now, and he’s verbal and bright and nonviolent.

Except when they wrestle and Charlie lets him elbow the shit out of him, but he always figured that was okay. 

“She--”

“You punched a _girl?_ ” Charlie winces as soon as he says it, says a silent prayer to Julie Gaffney and Connie Moreau who would absolutely kick his ass if they had heard him.

“She said she was better at football than me.”

Adam looks amused as hell, leans against the back porch railing and watches for some A+ parenting skills. Charlie resists the urge to flip him off, reminding himself he just made a whole plan in an elevator to romance the jerk. 

“Maybe she is better at football than you,” Charlie says carefully. “Adam’s better at hockey than me, and you don’t see me punching him.”

Once he stole liquid nitrogen to freeze and shatter Banksy’s jersey for being better at hockey than him and making the Varsity squad, but he’s trying to parent here, and parenting is full of omission. 

“Adam plays hockey,” Jem says.

“I used to…” Charlie switches tracks, channeling his glare at both the small child looking at him intently and the snickering adult behind him. “Listen, you cannot hit people. You use your words and tell a teacher if that doesn’t work.”

“I was a better hitter than her. And a better football player.”

“You use your words, you got it?”

“Okay.”

“This is North Carolina,” Adam points out helpfully. “He goes to a school that likes ma’am and sir.”

Charlie sighs. “Zachary James, do you understand that you need to use your words?”

“Yes sir,” Jem parrots, honest-to-God grinning over at Adam who gives him a little fist bump.

“Good manners, bud. Way better than punching people at recess.”

Charlie elbows him in the ribs on the way inside, and Adam whispers, “Use your words,” making them both laugh.

They eat dinner, Adam side-eyeing the vase of flowers as he cuts into his salmon. Jem picks the green things out of the rice and eats them first like the absolute weirdo he is.

“Why do we have flowers? Is someone visiting?” Adam asks.

“Nope.” Charlie eats a mouthful of rice.

“Did someone give them to you?”

“Nope. They’re for you."

Adam stares at him for thirty solid seconds, eyes narrowed, waiting for a punchline or an explanation, and Charlie holds his gaze, forces his mouth not to smile, his eyes not to dart away. Finally, Adam shrugs.

“They’re pretty. Thanks, dude.” But he’s got this little twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smile too shy to appear.

“You are very welcome,” Charlie says. The salmon tonight tastes particularly excellent, even if his kid is the Mike Tyson of Kindergarten.

  
  
  
  
  
  


In keeping with his new plan, Charlie brings home flowers another two times and a straw hat the day after Adam returns the hat trick-scoring, conquering hero of his road trip. Adam turns the stupid thing over in his hands, still dressed in a suit and tie, but this time, he lets himself smile. It’s big, wide, and honest; he took a high stick to the mouth two years ago that almost lost him some chiclets, but for now, it’s still all natural in there.

“Thanks. Guess I played pretty well.”

“You were a stud, and you know it.” 

There’s still an hour before Jem’s school day ends, and the little neighborhood school is less than 10 minutes away, so they take advantage of the time. Adam shows him pictures from Toronto, like he always does after a trip. There’s an earnest sweetness to it, but it’s never quite enough to take away the sting. Charlie’s been to L.A. when he was a kid and hockey opened a door for him, and he’s been to Grand Forks for the same reason. Now he’s become another hometown lifer just in a different place. He never travels anywhere new. The money’s just not there, he won’t ask Adam, and besides, travel with children younger than 10 is not much fun at all.

They’re still talking when Charlie’s phone starts to buzz over on the kitchen counter. It’s not the constant vibration of a phone call, just the sporadic zing of messages. Adam clicks off Do Not Disturb on his.

“It’s the group text,” he says, surprised. No one uses it anymore, not really. Even in their early twenties it had faded away to the occasional big news and nothing more, and it makes Charlie sad in a vague, occasional way, like the way you’re sad when Christmas is over or the summer draws to a close, its gloom tempered by its inevitability. No one stays squad goals with their ten year old PeeWee hockey team forever. They’re all lucky enough to even keep tabs on each other at all. 

“No shit?” Charlie goes over to grab his phone. It’s a flurry of texts following a picture from the newspaper about Coach Gordon Bombay retiring from his position as Head of Youth Player Development for USA Hockey. It’s Portman who says it best, burly Portman whose adult life is a mystery to them all.

_Nobody else really knew but Coach saved me_

Charlie feels the same way. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Bombay saved Charlie that first year at Eden Hall when his anger was eating him alive from the inside out. Coach took all the hate roiling around in there and found people Charlie had to love instead, people who generated something better inside a posturing, raging kid. He’d given him Hans and the quiet of the skate shop, Coach Orion and his steady, unyielding strength, and finally, he gave him Adam Banks when he came by his house one last time after the big JV-Varsity exhibition.

He sat down across from him at that kitchen table like he’d first done when Charlie was ten years old and said, “There’s something else we have to talk about before I go, Charlie.” 

Charlie’d been flying high on the Duck victory and pretty Linda and the sweet, spinning celebration of his hockey team on the ice. He’d thrown himself into a chair.

“We won!” 

“That’s great.” Coach hadn’t looked like he cared that much about that. “You looked good out there, all of you. Hey, I need to talk to you about Adam.”

“Now?” Because Charlie hadn’t been surprised to have to talk about Adam, only to have to do it right then. Coach doesn’t even know the worst of it. Charlie punched Adam in the illegal JV-Varsity game before all this, spat out the secret resentments and bitter jealousies he’d kept hidden. 

“He’s the best player at Eden Hall. One of the top prospects in the state. He wants to go all the way.” 

Charlie had looked down at his hands resting on the table then. Neither of them needed to say the obvious: playing in the NHL was not an option for Charlie. For a little while after the Games, he had entertained the dream of coaching in the big show instead, but that was a gig for former players, people with intimate, scarred, earned experience in that arena. 

Adam was going to go where Charlie couldn’t follow again, and maybe this time, unlike the Goodwill Games or the start of this school year, Charlie could be cool about it, not whine and cry and scream and beg for life to stay so simple they could all always wear the same logo and assemble within minutes after hearing a duck call.

“I get it, Coach. I promise.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Charlie fishes around, making a few calls, until he gets ahold of Bombay’s number. He sends it through the group text and hopes the old man gets lots of unexpected well wishes. But every time he thinks about calling, his fingers stall on the final number. 

He eavesdrops on Adam’s call one evening though, sitting on the back porch in the phenomenal October weather, the roses in full, glorious fall bloom backlit by sunset. Adam’s seated in an Adirondack chair, and Charlie’s on the porch swing with Jem beside him, tucked under his arm to snuggle in close, all of them Thursday night tired.

“It’s nice to talk to you too,… Yes, sir. I’ve got a few points this year… Mostly just wanted to say congratulations on your retirement… You know the Ducks… Yes, sir. He’s right here… I’ll let you talk to him… Thanks, Coach.”

And then the phone is in Charlie’s hand, and he has no choice but to put it up to his ear.

“Hey Coach.”

“How are you, Charlie?” 

“I’m good.” The ten-year-old inside him almost blurts out so much more, the whole saga of his life from tiny Jem to elevator repair apprenticeship to discovering Adam’s secret, unbearable love of Swedish EDM before games. Coach would laugh and listen, but maybe he would also be sad to hear Charlie counted among the failures, the players he coached who never made it anywhere in the game they all loved.

“Congratulations, by the way. I hear you’re a father.”

“I am. Best colossally stupid decision of my life.”

As if he knows he’s being talked about, Jem turns his face up, bleary and grumpy. They’ve blown about twenty minutes past bedtime, and the consequences will be dire if he isn’t put to bed soon. Wordlessly, Adam gets up and holds out his arms for a little person starting to get way too big for that. Jem reaches up, pulls Charlie’s face down for a kiss, and then lets Adam tote him away. In the first year, Charlie used to sneak behind Adam when he was putting Jem to bed: at first, just to make sure he was doing it right and later, to marvel at the softness of this big man crooning to this little person.

It’s no wonder the first time they’d read _Heather Has Two Mommies_ at his daycare, Jem had proudly announced, “I have a Daddy and Adam” like it was the same thing.

Charlie wants it to be the same thing.

He realizes Coach is talking and tries to catch on to the subject.

“--- really good article. The Canes organization did a great job.”

Oh. He’s got to be talking about the article from a year ago, a cheesy profile of Adam Banks titled “Ducks Fly Together” that ended up splashed beyond hockey media. Between the primary author and team PR, they kept it heartwarming and light, honored Adam’s privacy but gave a peek into his private life. A three paragraph section highlighting his co-parenting with a former teammate charmed rather than fuel too much speculation. 

“Yeah. I was worried for him, kind of thought they should leave out the stuff about me and Jem.”

“But he let them keep it in."

Asked them to, more like, staring Charlie down and telling him he wasn’t worried about how it looked to anybody but Charlie and Jem. 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s been a long time,” Coach says, clearly not talking about five years, talking about fifteen years, talking about more than half of Charlie’s life.

“I’m working on it.”

“Really?” The surprise there is oddly satisfying.

“Yeah. I have a plan and everything.”

“Well damn.” Coach sounds so pleased, Charlie puffs up a little with pride. “I’m proud of you, Charlie. I’ve kept up with you, talked to your mom a few times when I’m in town. You’ve done well.”

Charlie coughs a little, takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Coach.”

Only later, brushing his teeth and crawling into his clean sheets, does Charlie realize he never even congratulated Coach on his retirement. He’ll have to call him again sometime for that one.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They have a rotation of three regular babysitters, ranging in age from 15 (she lives two doors down and charges a criminally low rate they always double) to 55 (she used to own the daycare where Jem spent his infant years and does them a favor now and again). When Charlie cannot line any of them up for the Saturday of the Islanders game, he asks his neighbor for the name of her preferred sitter and phone interviews a local high school senior until he’s blue in the face and certain she’s good enough.

When she arrives midday, Adam gets to the door first, Charlie skidding in behind him in sock feet.

“Hello?” Adam uses his _are you here to sell something?_ voice.

“Hey Quinn,” Charlie jumps forward, holding out his hand. “It’s great to meet you. I appreciate you agreeing to come on such late notice.”

“Come for what?” Adam mutters, but he opens the door wider to let her in. 

“It’s no problem, Mr. Conway,” Quinn says. The corner of a box of Sorry pokes out of the bag over her shoulder. She produces the paper copy of her resume and references for him even though he hadn’t asked. “I’m happy to do it.” 

“Jem’ll be glad to meet you. Jem?” He hollers for him, and the little sandy head pokes around the corner. “Come in here and meet Quinn. She’s going to be hanging out with you tonight.”

“Where are you going?” Jem asks.

“To the game,” Charlie says. “Quinn has agreed to let you choose what to order for dinner and to play Skylanders with you, so she’s pretty much the coolest.”

“Have you ever played Skylanders?” Jem wrinkles his nose.

“Nope.” Quinn shakes her head. “So you’re going to have to teach me everything.”

“Cool,” Jem drags it out to five syllables. “Let’s go!” 

Charlie tries not to laugh at the hurt expression on Adam’s face as Jem leads his new 18-year-old best friend to the den, but it clears almost as quickly as it appeared.

“What’s going on?” 

“You’re so suspicious.” Charlie rolls his eyes. “I figured this is a matinee game. We can get dinner after like real adults..”

“Yeah?” Adam seems to realize he’s asked a question for no reason and smiles instead. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”

They get ready separately, Adam heading out to the rink at his usual time and Charlie wasting extra minutes in the bathroom deciding how much he wants to look like he’s trying as hard as he is. He wears a Banks sweater -- he’s been doing that since he was a kid -- and jeans for the game, but he packs a hunter green henley to change into. He has it on good authority from his mother that it brings out his eyes.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The game is a fucking mess. There’s no way around it. Halfway through the first period, the Islanders score their second powerplay goal with three Canes snarling in the box like caged animals. Charlie’s watches Adam fussing from the bench. Though obviously he can’t hear him where he is, he can see the twist of his mouth as he tells his team to get it fucking together. They tighten up some, turning down the dial on their senseless penalties, but by the end of the third, they’ve still got two in the box when they let New York bury the game winner.

Even though tweaking his plan might make sense, Charlie knows Adam can separate on-ice and off-ice better than anyone else he knows. He sheds the stress with his pads. The game plan, the focus, the intense drive to improve… he carries those everywhere like a turtle’s shell. But no really, really like a turtle’s actual shell which isn’t a shell like a hermit crab but part of its body. Its spine marches right up the middle of its shell. That’s Adam with his focus. But one bad game doesn’t throw him too badly.

So Charlie changes into his henley in the crowded restroom and then waits for Adam beside his car in the parking garage, and when Adam walks out, dressed in jeans and a Canes sweatshirt, hair wet and badly styled, limping a little, he can’t help but grin.

“Shit game, man,” Charlie says.

“No kidding. Think the boys’ll get it together next time though.” He unlocks the car, and they get in. “Where are we going?” 

“State of Beer?” 

“Sounds great.”

It’s a downtown spot they’ve been a few times with solid sandwiches and a good beer selection. The whole place is a little trendy with its exposed lightbulbs and wood serving trays, but the clientele is relaxed and hockey-friendly if not hockey crazy. Most places in the city, they stand no chance of running into anyone who recognizes Adam, but State of Beer has the kind of crowd where once in a while, someone might. It hits the sweet spot for two Minnesota boys who miss hockey analysis being common small talk.

They snag a little table in the corner, order two tall drafts and two sandwiches, and keep up a good conversation. Any time it veers toward Jem or hockey, Charlie carefully steers it away. They enjoy a bitchfest about local politics (the current mayoral campaign is getting dirtier by the day) and an unusually earnest conversation about pets (why neither of them has any interest). It’s light and comfortable and pleasant and exactly what Charlie hoped. 

Nothing about Adam is different tonight, but the nervous, optimistic flutter in Charlie’s stomach won’t quiet. He’s practiced this in the mirror, imagining the way the smile will unfold across Adam’s mouth, the way his big hands will still as he thinks. This is the start of something great -- isn’t that what Adam told him when they loaded up to leave Grand Forks?

Charlie waits until they’ve had two more beers and have finished a curious conversation about which lousy action movie they’ve watched lately is the best. Then he puts down his empty stein, runs his hand across his mouth, and sits up a little straighter.

“This is fun,” he says. 

Adam nods. “Yeah. Good call to get a sitter.”

“Yeah. So I didn’t just do it so we could have dinner.” He inhales and glances around, lowering his voice a bit just in case. “I’ve been, um, thinking a lot lately. We’re pretty much married, right?”

“I’ve never been married, but it sure looks like it from the outside.”

“Right.” Charlie feels a little bolder after hearing that smiling, casual affirmation. “And it’s great. I wouldn’t want to do all of it with anybody else. You’re pretty much my favorite person ever, you and Jem, and I’m lucky. So lucky. But I didn’t tell you something important, and I want to. I’m bi. I always have been. In high school, I dated both ways the last two years, and I just didn’t tell you because I didn’t want…”

His prepared speech fails him as he watches Adam’s face, the scowl appearing on his mouth, eyes dark and blank. 

“You’re gay?”

“No, I’m…”

“What?” 

“I’m bi?” Charlie has no idea why he’s just made his own story a question.

“You _dated_ both ways in high school. Is that what you just said to me?”

“Yeah?”

“So people know. You’re not in the closet.”

“I guess not?”

And oh, Adam’s _pissed_. His hands do not go still and startled but come to life, putting down his beer, vibrating. He stands up, anger making him taller and broader like Charlie’s never seen him be, even when his dad was being a complete asshole or his team had fallen into a losing skid or Jem had used all of his shaving cream to paint his bathroom.

“What the fuck, Charlie? So why are you telling me now?”

This isn’t how this was supposed to be. It was supposed to be romantic. But it’s too far off course, and it’s already going to crash, so Charlie just blurts out, “I want us to be together.”

Adam just walks out. Charlie pays the tab, staring at the wall while the bartender zips his card through the machine, and when he gets to the car, Adam is in the driver’s seat on the phone with a teammate. He has him on speaker, and they’re just talking game in these even, business-like voices. Their conversation holds Charlie out better than any wall, so he observes the hard planes of Adam’s body, the angry twitch at the corner of his cheek. Nothing changes when they pull in the driveway, the voice on the other end talking about the need to stop cheating too far forward on the penalty kill. Charlie reaches down to push the button to release his sealtbelt, realizes he never buckled it to start with. His hands are shaky as he gets out of the car.

Adam leaves Charlie standing in the driveway alone watching the taillights disappear.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


18 years old and stupid, Charlie invites the Ducks to visit him at UND. 

Goldberg, Averman, Fulton, Portman, and Adam arrive for a whole weekend like a freshmen dorm can hold them all. The room is bursting at the seams, uncomfortable as hell, happy as can be. They play video games until 5 a.m. on Friday night, and Saturday night, Charlie introduces them to the party scene, a mix of pathetic underclassmen trying too hard and upperclassmen who still get blackout drunk with freshmen.

They gambol back to the dorm like it’s Mardi Gras, waving shirts around their heads, slinging their empty beer cans into the bushes. 

In the sleeping bags on the floor, Portman and Fulton and Goldberg stretch out. Averman tucks into Charlie’s roommate’s bed, complaining the sheets smell sour, and Adam and Charlie climb up the rickety wooden ladder into Charlie’s lofted twin bed. There’s not even enough room for one hockey player, and they start out nose-to-toes. But when the chatting of the drunks below turns to snoring, Charlie’s taken one too many sharp knees or elbows to the soft parts. 

“Get up here,” he grouses, slapping Adam’s hip. If he were sober, Adam would ask for confirmation, a soft _are you sure?_ but drunk and peaceful, he just obeys.

They lay together, heads on the same pillow, facing each other, so close Charlie smells the toothpaste and cheap bourbon, so close Charlie can feel the hammering pulse of their hearts in rhythm long after they’re both pretending to be asleep.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Three months into their apartment life, both still more clueless than not, Charlie starts to remember what life with Adam is like, its curious mix of complete relaxation and deliberate repression. He can cut his toenails on the couch next to Adam, scoop the clippings off the table into a little trashcan, and then cheerfully counter the bitching about how he’s gross. When he’s been up all night with Jem and the world is blurry and ugly, he can sit at the table with tears in his eyes and admit he wishes he could just freeze time for a few hours, just to get some relief. Adam will throw his arm around him and pull him in and promise him they’ve got this. They see each other’s real every day.

But he can’t be too careful in other ways. Adam comes back from his morning jogs, red-faced, shirt sticking to the stripe of perspiration down his back, and cools down right there in the kitchen, stretching out his muscles like an advertisement for all the good merits of exercise. Charlie finds excuses not to be in the kitchen then. Adam goes out with the team some Saturday nights and catches a cab home, a little blurry, a little handsy, a little too close every time he talks, so Charlie goes to bed early if Adam goes out. He learns the patterns he needs to tiptoe around for them to stay simple.

One morning, he’s in the shower, shampoo in his hair and soap all over his body because he likes to wash and rinse in one fell swoop, when he hears Adam’s voice. 

“What?” He pokes his head out of the shower, and there’s Adam, one hand holding up the towel around his hips and the other holding Jem. Charlie gulps.

“I can’t find any of his pacifiers,” Adam repeats. His hair sticks up in all directions, towel-scrubbed and wet, and his pale skin has red splotches from the blistering hot water. He looks like Charlie’s first wet dream, all the better for being real and close enough to touch. “I’m packing his bag for daycare.”

“They’re all in the dishwasher,” Charlie says. 

“Thanks.”

Charlie can feel the shampoo starting to roll down from his hair toward his eyes, but he’s only human, drawn to temptation like anyone else, so he keeps his head out to watch Adam leave, to appreciate the little left to his imagination. 

He starts locking the bathroom door after that though, just to keep everything clear.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Charlie sends Quinn home, barely remembering anything he says to her, and joins Jem at Skylanders even though he knows the kid needs to be in bed. He’s already played enough video games for the whole weekend; the mommy blogs would be up in arms over the screen time. Jem talks incessantly in that way kids his age do, full of pauses and starts and stops and nonsequiturs that make it hard for an adult to enjoy.

“That’s Master Ember, Daddy. Look, pay attention,” Jem says, poking Charlie in the arm. He points at a flailing blue and orange character on the screen, surrounded by sparks. It would not be possible for Charlie to be less interested in its backstory right now. He sucks it up, though, because this is his kid, and it’s not Jem’s fault Adam walked out on him. He never could have imagined a situation where Adam would walk out on him. Maybe he even takes him for granted a little, though he never considered it that way before now.

“He’s a fire master and can do a lot of damage. I’m listening, kid, but we’ve got to get you to bed.”

“Can I wait up for Adam?” 

How’s a kid supposed to know when he’s hit a sore spot? Charlie trains his face not to betray anything.

“He’s going to be late. So bed and you’ll see him in the morning.”

“Where’s he out late?”

“Just adult stuff,” Charlie says. “Now come on.”

Some nights, he puts Jem to bed without thinking about it, just goes through the motions and reads the bedtime story without paying attention, only really tunes into what he’s doing as he kisses him good night, but tonight, he holds _Leonardo the Terrible Monster_ between them and does every voice. By the time Leonardo scares the tuna-salad out of the little boy, Jem is giggling with his eyes half-closed, and Charlie loves him so much it hurts.

“Get some sleep, Jemmy. I love you.”

Jem doesn’t say it back, too much asleep already, but his little mouth flicks its smile. Charlie puts the blanket up around his shoulders and cuts out the light.

He washes the dirty dishes in the sink by hand even though the dishwasher’s empty, eyes moving to the window involuntarily every few minutes, and tries not to be morose. Adam’s voice saying _in high school_ like it was the worst profanity he had ever heard that keeps him from cutting on music. But even as it plays on repeat inside his skull, pinging around the hard bone and soft brain and making everything hurt, he doesn’t know what he did wrong

Finally, he lays down on the couch and cuts on a movie. He falls asleep in front of _Rush Hour 3._ He hasn’t heard from Adam.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Charlie wakes up to gentle shaking, recognizing the big hand on his shoulder before he even opens his eyes. The relief hits him in the chest like the butt end of a stick, and he actually laughs, a short bark of air without humor. 

“Jesus, Adam.” His voice is rough from disuse. He runs his tongue over his teeth, slimy and unbrushed. “What time is it?”

“A little after four.”

“Holy shit.” Charlie sits up, shaking his head to get some blood flowing. He makes eye contact now. Adam’s still in his jeans and sweatshirt, still has his shoes on his feet. “You came home.”

“Yeah.” 

Charlie notices how he doesn’t say _of course._

Adam says, “How could you not tell me you were bi? I mean, if it wasn’t some secret or something personal you were coming to terms with, how could you never tell me?”

The answer might have made perfect sense to Charlie a few hours ago, but now it sounds so stupid in his head he doesn’t want to say it.

“You came out, and then never really talked about it again. I thought you didn’t want to, and I didn’t _need_ to.”

“I thought I was your best friend,” Adam says, the past tense heavy and obvious. He’s thinking of younger versions of them when Charlie was dating guys while Adam left his guts on the ice in juniors. All those thousands of texts back and forth, every one of those eager visits, and Adam’s remembering what he didn’t know in every one. He’s thinking of it as betrayal Charlie never intended.

“You were. You _are._ I just… knew you needed to focus on hockey, and then by the time Jem came along, it never really seemed to matter.”

“Of course it matters. Of course it fucking matters.”

“Okay.” Charlie still doesn’t understand, not really. “I believe you. It matters. But like… it just hasn’t. I should have told you sooner, and I’m sorry, dude. I’m really sorry because I never thought about it like however you’re thinking about it.”

Adam stands up and scrubs his hands over his face. “But you were ready to tell me now.”

Even in the cool, dark room, Charlie feels his cheeks flame hot. He had planned this part, speaking in front of the mirror and trying to perfect this casual, open, relaxed, easy expression, wanting to simultaneously look like someone in love while also looking like someone perfectly happy to just be platonic roommates forever. No pressure, right? That’s what he had wanted his face to say, but now the pressure’s already built to painful levels, caving in his chest, making it hard to get enough air to push out the words.

“Because I want to be _with_ you. For real, not just in the same house.”

Sinking back onto the couch, Adam puts his head in his hands. His shaky exhale is on the verge of tears, and Charlie feels like the biggest asshole in the world without even knowing why.

“It’s not just a sudden thing or because I’m lonely or something,” he tries to explain. “I’ve always liked you.” 

It’s both more complicated than that and completely, blissfully that simple.

But Adam says nothing. Charlie tugs his feet up onto the couch, sits criss-cross on the cushion and turns to better face Adam just in case he decides to look up, to say something, to give a sign whether to shut up or keep talking. He doesn’t.

“I wasn’t ignoring it or you. I just… we’ve been so busy. I had the apprenticeship and work, and you have to live and breathe hockey, and we have Jem. I don’t think I had time to catch my breath or even let myself think about it until.” Charlie shrugs.

Adam finishes for him. “Until Jem started school.”

“Yeah.”

“I understand.” His voice is miserable. “But you don’t.”

“What don’t I understand?” Charlie nudges Adam with his elbow and halfway lies because it’s easier than telling the whole truth. “It’s pretty simple. If you want to try it, we try it. If you don’t, nothing changes. This is a win-win situation.”

“I’m seeing someone, Charlie.”

The bottom of Charlie’s stomach hits bedrock. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know you haven’t been dating. You go out.” There’s a line of accusation under the words.

“Yeah. With guys from work,” Charlie pauses, and then adds, “Straight guys from work. Buddies.”

“Well, I date.” Adam is curt, the harsh glow of the TV casting shadows into the lines of his face as he looks up. “I wasn’t sitting around thinking about anything I was never going to have. I’m seeing someone. He’s a good guy.”

“How long?” What a stupid fucking question, like it’s a competition, like he can declare himself the winner just because no matter how long this guy has been around, Charlie’s been around longer.

“A year.”

And shit, that’s not what he expected. He thinks of the completely different rhythm of their lives, the repairman’s work week almost never syncing up with the hockey player’s, and suddenly sees all the time he never thought about, time that existed without any evidence. Adam didn’t have hobbies tucked away in the corners of the house, no piles of books he devoured in his free time. No, instead, he had a boyfriend somewhere who he just never mentioned. 

“And you’re mad at me about not telling you I’m bi?” Charlie knows it’s a bad choice to get angry now, just when Adam’s shoulders have relaxed, his frown replaced by a flat line. “You’ve been dating someone a year and never even mentioned it.”

“Like you said, you weren’t exactly talking about dating and shit. I just thought you weren’t entirely comfortable.”

“Fuck, dude, no,” he mutters unnecessarily.

“Yeah. Got it now, asshole.” He stands up. “Got it now.”

Charlie wonders if this is what heartbreak feels like. Nothing hurts. He digs the heel of his hand in over his heart and feels nothing. As the curious numbness spreads over his body, creeps cold and deadening into his thoughts, he knows he has to say something. His tongue feels heavy.

“Tell me about him,” he manages.

“No.” Adam stands up again. “I’m going to bed. It’s early, and I have practice later today. I’m not going to live some soap opera. We’re roommates, best friends. Tonight’s been awkward and weird, but we’ll get over it. We’ll both get over it. It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

For the second time in 24 hours, Charlie has to watch Adam leave.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The next few weeks are brutal. There’s no other word for the quiet tension in the house where neither of them knows what to say. They watch every word like they’re strangers. Jem accidentally goes an extra day without a bath because each of them assumes the other will handle it, and when he gets ready to leave on a weeklong Canadian road stand, Adam kisses Jem goodbye and awkwardly shrugs his shoulders at Charlie who can’t make himself say anything at all.

Irrationally, he feels like he’s living in a marriage after infidelity, wondering constantly about details he cannot bear to know.

Does Adam’s boyfriend go to any of the games? Has Charlie been there in the stands, admiring the perfect playmaking, grinning until his face hurts at the sweet goals, just a few seats from some guy doing the same thing? 

What do they talk about? Does Adam have clothes in his closet, a drawer in the dresser, a toothbrush in the cup in a shared bathroom? Does he love the scratchy, unused depth of Adam’s voice first thing in the morning? 

Do they say _I love you_ or are they cautious, taking it slow? How much of Adam does he know that Charlie doesn’t?

That’s the question that does it, sends bile up in his throat just thinking about some man who thinks Adam belongs to him, someone who thinks Charlie is just some roommate and that Adam loves him, whoever he is, most.

It’s arrogant and stupid, maybe, but Charlie knows Adam loves him like _that_ , like _this,_ like everything important. They’ve been together their whole lives. If Adam had known Charlie was an option, he wouldn’t be with whoever he’s with now. 

One night while Adam’s gone -- this time just a quick roadie to Washington -- Charlie picks up the phone and starts making calls.

He starts with his mom. She’s always happy to hear from him, bubbly with enthusiasm about her next visit and her new beau, but he turns the subject away. He tells her he’s in love with Adam and needs to find a way to win him over, back, whatever word applies.

“Oh honey, love is mysterious,” she says. “There’s no way to know what’s going to happen.”

Not only does that not help him, it actually makes him sad. She’s lived her life that way as if love and marriage are impossible mysteries woven of the unknown. He supposes believing that is what keeps her from falling apart every time she ends up alone again. Her destiny’s written in the stars, so she can’t possibly take responsibility for any part of it.

Next, he calls Coach Bombay. He gets voicemail first, but when Coach calls back, Charlie tells him the same truths. He never even considers that some of it isn’t his to tell, just spills his heart out. Back when he was naive enough to try to marry his mom off to Coach, he used to think Bombay was the best listener he knew, even better than Hans because Hans always tried to fix every problem with his advice but Coach just listened until you felt better.

“Did you ask him how he feels about you?” Coach asks.

“I don’t have to,” Charlie says, surprised how certain he is of that. “I know. And he knows it too.”

Coach fumbles through his replies, at a loss for any words that help, and finally, Charlie has mercy and tells him he feels better. They hang up with a promise to talk soon.

But it’s actually Fulton Reed who has what Charlie needs to hear. He answers the phone in breathless surprise. It’s not like they call each other; they barely even text anymore. But their friendship is like riding a bike, and within minutes, Charlie can close his eyes and see the two of them slapping clappers toward the street and pretending adulthood would be easier than high school. He confesses the whole stupid story in a rush.

“You fucked up, man.”

“Big time,” Charlie agrees, “but I can’t go back and be seventeen again and fix that part. And I can’t do some grand gesture now. He’s not looking to be the NHL’s first openly gay player.”

The long pause suggests Fulton’s thinking, so Charlie walks to the fridge for a sparkling water. Adam keeps them around as a soda replacement, a vice he desperately wants to let himself have but won’t. He pops the top and glugs down half of the can, the fizz unpleasantly rapid in his mouth and throat.

Finally, Fulton speaks. “Would you wait for him? Like, until he’s ready?”

“Of course.” Charlie might answer instantly, but even after a pause, he is confident. “He waited for me.”

Only he kind of didn’t. Charlie thought he had, but instead, Adam had just been dating around and not saying a word, sneaking out like some kind of teenager who never mentions the shenanigans he’s been enjoying in his backseat. 

“No, he didn’t,” Fulton said. “He’s been dating, but he didn’t know you were someone he could wait for.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’d wait.”

“Then wait.” Charlie smiles because he can hear Fulton’s shrug in his voice. “It’s Adam. He’s going to choose you. It’s always been you.”

Before he goes to bed later, warm and buzzing from this simple solution, Charlie shoots Fulton a text.

[Charlie] _Thanks bud. You got wise on me._

[Fulton] _You just got stupid but no worries anytime_

[Charlie] _Ducks for life_

[Fulton] _quack quack_

  
  
  
  
  


Charlie waits. He waits through the rest of a season, a missed playoff opportunity, and into the long, lazy, hot months off. He waits until the tension becomes truce. Then he waits some more until everything gets back to normal. When Adam goes home to spend a week in Maine with his parents, Charlie calls him to FaceTime a bedtime story to Jem and texts him asking for pictures of the weather. They drop Jem off for his first day of first grade together even though it nearly makes Adam late for practice. The teacher offers to take a picture of the three of them, and Charlie saves it as his phone background. 

In a rare Raleigh snowstorm, a dusting that leaves two inches of powder on the unsalted roads, Charlie skids into another car. Adam rags on him mercilessly, tries to take away all of his Minnesota street cred, but Charlie sees how his hands shake when he picks him up on the side of the road in the flashing yellow of the tow truck’s lights. 

“Thank God you’re okay,” Adam says, and the experience makes Charlie get serious about things he’s never handled before. They pay outrageous lawyer fees and sign paperwork about where Jem goes if something happens to Charlie. Or rather, where Jem stays if something happens to Charlie. They select Adam as primary guardian in case of emergency. Signing the papers, Adam’s hand is steady as a rock.

Sometimes Charlie thinks he can’t wait any longer. His skin itches with how bad he wants to touch Adam but maybe anyone, anyone who would press their hands into his body and help him remember another kind of love. And his heart aches with secret, haunted fears, whispered nightmares of how he might be waiting for something that will never come. 

Once, they are eating breakfast, Adam calmly talking on the phone with his agent on speaker and Jem doing a math worksheet, and Charlie almost shouts out, “Can’t you tell what I'm doing? I’m right here!” Instead, he takes a giant bite of waffle, gulps down milk with his mouth still full, and listens to Jem’s giggles. Adam pulls a face but grins too.

But the Canes make the playoffs this time, easy as pie, more points than any other team in the Metro, and Adam comes home from the last regular season game grinning like he’s already a Stanley Cup Champion. They’re playing hot as hell. He’s only two places behind Ovechkin for the Rocket Richard. It’s the last year of his contract, but they’re going to sign him again because he’s incredible. Charlie’s so proud of him he’s a little in awe. It’s the dream, baby. Adam’s living the dream.

In the foyer, Adam drops his bag beside the door like he used to do in the apartment. Jem runs out of his bedroom and jumps into his arms. The sweetest deja vu presses on Charlie’s heart, making him smile.

“You won!” If he were still little, Jem might have said _you winned._ That’s what he always used to say.

“Sure did.”

“Good job!”

“Thanks, buddy.” Adam sets him back on his feet. “What do you say we celebrate by going out to get some pizza?”

“And breadsticks?” 

“Maybe.” He pretends to think. “How about this? We’ll order breadsticks if you go play in your room for a few minutes. I want to talk to your dad.”

“Deal!”

And then they’re standing there in the foyer, and Charlie grins too because the loose, happy enthusiasm on Adam’s face is infectious. He’s always loved him like this, lit up from the inside out, glowing.

“Congrats on a crazy season,” Charlie says. “You actually look proud of yourself for once.”

“I feel pretty good,” Adam admits. “We’re going deep this time. I know it. And I broke up with my boyfriend.”

He says it with relish, and Charlie sucks in a breath, trying to stay neutral.

“Sorry.”

“Four months ago,” Adam finishes. “He asked me to meet you and Jem. He said he was ready to get to know my family, start thinking about a future together.”

“Oh.”

“And I didn’t want a future with him.”

Charlie wishes to say something profound, but he’s speechless, caught so off-guard by all of this he isn’t sure which way is up. They stare at each other, and Charlie waits. Adam straightens up, his eyes twinkling, his lips curving into a smile, before he speaks again.

“I’m a Taurus and a professional athlete, and I like country music and sweet potatoes. I’m kind of a dad, though we don’t normally say that, and my kid’s the greatest in the whole world. Bar none. He’s mine forever, no matter what else happens.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” Charlie’s is barely a hoarse whisper.

“But I’m not as complicated as that sounds. I’ve been in love with one person my entire life, and that’s not going to change,” Adam says. “Can I take you out sometime?”

God, it’s cheesy, so lame it makes Charlie want to laugh and throw his head back and sing. His heart pounds against his ribs like it can leap out into Adam’s hands. But he can’t play along because he’s actually about to cry. He nods like a bobblehead, and Adam laughs in choked relief.

“Thank God. I practiced that stupid speech in the mirror. I thought I could at least play it off for laughs if you said no.” Adam leans back against the door, dropping his head to the wood with a thunk. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Charlie whispers.

“I figured that out. It took me awhile.”

Suddenly, they’ve lurched together, close like a thousand times before, close like never before. For one stretched-out, terrifying instant, Charlie worries they’ll be dogs chasing cars, that they won’t know what to do now that they’ve caught each other. Adam erases the fears in an instant, pressing his mouth to his. They kiss like sloppy teenagers, stupid with emotions they won’t understand until years and years have passed, content now just to _feel_ everything and know nothing. 

They break apart, panting and grinning all over themselves.

“We’re still not even,” Adam says. “I should have been the first one to know you were bi. We could have been doing this years ago.”

“Then we wouldn’t have Jem.” 

Maybe the earnestness in his voice is what makes Adam kiss him again, just for a moment, soft as could be.

“Whatever. You still owe me for all that lost time,” Adam teases, but Charlie nods solemnly.

“You can have the rest of my life.”

Now it’s Adam whose voice holds tears. “That would do it.”

They take Jem out for pizza. He asks them a million questions about tarantulas because he watched a YouTube video and eats two big slices all by himself. It’s nothing at all like two terrified kids eating takeout on a smelly couch with a baby on their laps, but the shared memory stretches between them in secret smiles. 

They share a coke, and Charlie thrills every time he puts his mouth where Adam’s just was. Adam grins at him like he knows it. Like he knows a lot. 

  
  
  
  
  


Eleven years old and stupid, Charlie asks Adam Banks if he has a best friend. 

They’re on the ice after practice, and Adam’s showing Charlie how to control his shots, shows off how to use your eyes and your angle to put the puck wherever you want it. Everybody knows he’s the best player in the league, not because he has the best skates or the coolest stick (though he does), but because he’s smart with the puck and can really do the things he imagines. 

Charlie loves to imagine himself burying a game winner behind an awesome goalie, but that doesn’t make it happen. Adam does it all the time.

“Not really,” Adam admits, spinning his stick in his hands.

“Not even on the other team?” 

Adam shakes his head.

Charlie’s glad to hear it because all of the Hawks are the worst people he knows. “Me either.”

“That’s not true,” Adam says mildly. “The Ducks are super tight.”

“Yeah, but no one’s my _best_ friend.”

They skate together for another ten minutes before Bombay pops back out and tells them the Zamboni’s going to turn them into Flat Stanley if they don’t get off the ice. They head to the locker room together.

Adam ducks his head and mumbles, “Maybe we’ll be best friends.”

Charlie grins, glad Adam brought it back up so he wouldn’t have to. “Then we’d always have each other. Like no matter what happened.”

“Yeah, like, forever.” 

“That’d be awesome.”

They fist bump like they are signing a contract.

  
  



End file.
